When I was my daughter Savannah’s age, all I wanted for Christmas was white go go boots.
My steely, Irish Catholic mother, however, wasn’t about to have a 6-year-old Nancy Sinatra in the house. My Rachel Zoe-like obsession with the ultimate 70s fashion accessory was enough to throw her into a chain-smoking fit. “You know, Santa might not have go go boots in stock,” she’d say, puffing away on her Raleigh non-filters.
In retrospect, she had it easy. Yesterday, I dug Savannah’s Christmas list out of her freezer where she keeps it hidden and she had no less than 22 items listed and clearly has no intent on stopping.
I quickly skimmed the list to see what was feasible on my single mom budget. DS, Shake It Up Video, Clothes, Tap Shoes. Okay….check, check, check, check.
Then, written ever-so-neatly at the bottom in the baby sitter’s handwriting was meet the Beatles.
Two months ago she came dancing in the door from her father’s Jose’s house, singing “Yellow Submarine.” Having just discovered the Beatles, you would have thought she found a drinking fountain that sprouted chocolate syrup. “Mom, do you know these guys name John, Paul, Ringo and George?” she asked between bars.
The offshoot of custody and child support battles is that there are endless attempts – subconscious and otherwise – by parents to position the other as the “bad guy.” Thanks to my conniving ex not only do I get a whopping $2.89 a month for child support, but I’ve now been tasked with impossible: produce four living rock legends, two of whom are dead, for Christmas.
Hand me the Raleigh nonfilters, please.