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Lydia has never seen the mall so crowded before.
Well, maybe on Black Friday, but she hasn’t gone Black Friday shopping in person in years. Ever since they took Thanksgiving over from Melissa and the Sheriff, the energy required for cooking and cleaning and wrangling three small children has left none for wrestling shoppers over sale-priced items at six in the morning. Besides, there’s very rarely something she needs that she can’t buy online for the same exact sale price. The extra five dollars on shipping are well worth it.
You would think it was Black Friday today, though, just looking at the crowds. But Black Friday was weeks ago, and today might be something even more stress-inducing— photos with Santa.
“Stop pulling at your bow, Emilie,” Lydia says gently, prying the ends of the red ribbon out of her five-year-old’s hand. “I promise you can take it out once you see Santa.”
“Why do we have to dress up to meet Santa again?” Nolan demands, giving his mom and dad a moody look as he tugs at the collar of his shirt, peeking out from under his nice green sweater. “If he’s watching us all the time to make sure we’re being good, then doesn’t he know what our normal clothes look like?”
“You have to dress up because you’re getting your picture taken,” Stiles says, shooting his son a look back. “And because your mom said so, and she’s the boss.”
“Do you want the photo that goes up on the wall to be of you in your sweatpants?” Lydia asks, bending over to fix Nolan’s collar. With a quick glance at the line of other fidgety kids in front of them, Lydia guesses that they have maybe ten minutes left of waiting. If her children can just hold it together for fifteen more minutes, she will never ask for anything again. (Or at least until the next time she needs them on their best behavior for an extended period of time.)
“I don’t care,” Nolan says, and Lydia just shakes her head as she finishes straightening out his collar. Unfortunately, her love of fashionable clothing has not been passed down to most of her children.
“Nolan,” Felicity says, giving her younger brother the stink eye. That’s my girl, Lydia thinks, watching her eleven-year-old fluff the skirt of her pretty red dress. Felicity, it seems, is the only one who inherited Lydia’s appreciation of style.
“Only one more group in front of us,” Stiles announces, leaning down and scooping Emmy up in his arms— rumpling her skirt, but distracting her from messing with her hairbow. “You ready to meet Santa?”
Emilie nods, giggling as Stiles tickles her ribs. “Careful, Em!” Nolan hisses, narrowly dodging one of her shiny Mary Janes as her foot kicks in response to Stiles’s tickling.
“Stiles,” Lydia hisses, elbowing her husband gently, but she can’t help the smile that creeps onto her face. She loves seeing him with their kids, even after all these years.
“Almost our turn,” Lydia says, looking at all three of her kids. “You all remember what you’re asking Santa for?”
“Mmhmm,” Nolan says, kicking at an imaginary pebble on the ground. “I want a new baseball bat. For Little League.” Lydia nods her head at his words— she got her Christmas shopping done weeks ago, and Nolan’s new baseball bat is already wrapped and in the attic, where the kids won’t find it. Generally they take the kids to see Santa earlier than they’re doing this year, but Stiles has been working overtime on a new case he’s been put on at work, and Nolan’s had sports, and Felicity was in a production of The Nutcracker last weekend, and there has just been no time for all five of them to make it to the mall to see Santa and get their picture taken since Christmas season began.
“You sure you don’t want it for battling supernatural monsters?” Stiles asks his son, and at that, Lydia cannot help but roll her eyes dramatically.
“Do not encourage him, Stiles,” she says. “Your dad went running into danger with just a baseball bat way too often when we were younger.”
“And I’m still here!” Stiles argues. Both his hands are occupied with holding Emmy, but his expression somehow manages to convey that his arms would be flailing if that were an option. Em just shakes her head in a way that looks so mature on her little five year old face, resting her chin on her father’s shoulder.
“I’m gonna leave the supernatural fighting to Mom and Uncle Scott,” Nolan says, giving his dad a look. “My bat is gonna be for baseball.”
“I’m asking for a new chemistry set,” Felicity announces, fiddling with her skirt. Another gift Lydia already has purchased and hidden in the attic. Even at eleven, Felicity is already completely fascinated with chemistry and science, always begging Lydia to bring her into her lab at Stanford— regardless of how many times Lydia has told her it’s not a chem lab, it’s a bioengineering lab. (The couple times Lydia has managed to sneak her in, though, Felicity hasn’t seemed to care much about the difference.)
“You are truly your mother’s daughter, Fel,” Stiles says, as the family in front of them steps up to meet Santa. He turns to look at his youngest, booping her on the nose. “What about you, Em?”
Emilie giggles again, squirming in her dad’s arms. “I want the baby doll that eats,” she tells him, and Lydia tries not to audibly sigh. She’d been trying, unsuccessfully, for months, to convince Emilie that there were much better toys than a babydoll that you fed mush to and then had to change its diaper. “I don’t understand,” she had muttered to Stiles weeks ago. “This doll is literally all the worst parts of having a baby. Why does she want something that’s going to create more work for herself? If she really wants to change diapers, I can send her over to her Uncle Liam’s house and she can help him change Lila’s diapers.”
“Because— let’s be honest— she is not going to be the one changing its diapers, you are,” Stiles had answered. “She’s going to ‘feed’ it and then get bored, and you are going to have to clean all the fake food out of it.”
“Which is exactly why I don’t want to get her that damn doll,” Lydia had grumbled. “She’s five now, I thought she would want an American Girl doll like Felicity has. But every time I try to convince her that a doll whose hair she can play with and outfits she can get would be way more fun, she is adamant about this stupid Baby Alive doll.”
“Sorry, hon,” Stiles had responded, kissing her head sweetly. “She knows what she wants, and she’s stubborn.” He had smirked at that, leaning his forehead against hers. “Wonder where she gets that from.”
So after weeks of showing her youngest daughter the American Girl dolls she could pick out and the outfits she could ask her other relatives for and trying desperately to convince Emilie that this doll would be much more fun, Lydia had relented, and had finally gone to the store to buy the stupid eating babydoll and a pack of refill diapers (which were sold separately, of course) because Emilie would not budge. Lydia’s hoping that the novelty of feeding the doll will wear off quickly, and she can pack it away within a few months, never to be seen again.
The family in front of them in line finishes up with Santa, the mom and dad ushering their kids out of the elaborate set up for photos.
“Come on, guys, our turn,” Stiles says, putting Emmy down so he can take Felicity and Nolan by the hands, leading them over to Santa’s plush throne.
“Hold on, Em, your skirt,” Lydia says, leaning down to quickly fix her daughter’s skirt.
“Thanks Mommy,” Emilie says, her smile so sweet that it makes Lydia’s heart squeeze.
“Okay,” Lydia says, smiling at her little girl once the fabric is hanging right again. “You ready to go meet Santa?”
“Yes!” Emilie says, taking her mom’s hand and squeezing it. Stiles walks the few feet back over to them, having already ushered their oldest kids over to the helper elves who will arrange them next to Santa. “Mommy?” she says, biting her lip adorably, and Lydia raises her eyebrows.
“Yeah, honey?” she responds.
“I think you’re right,” Emilie says, closing her eyes and nodding her head in the same way her older sister does. She keeps trying to act like Felicity, and Lydia thinks it’s adorable. “I’m going to ask Santa for an American Girl doll. It’ll be more fun than the baby doll.”
Lydia freezes at that, not exactly sure how to respond to her daughter’s declaration. One of the elf helpers comes over, asking Emilie if she’s ready to meet Santa, and she nods, kissing Lydia on the cheek before she takes the elf’s hand, skipping over to her siblings.
“Are you effing kidding me?” Lydia says through gritted teeth, standing up next to her husband. She thinks she might strangle her daughter. Stiles, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Well, that’s what you wanted, right?” he says gently. “Now you won’t have to clean up the eating doll all the time.”
“Yes,” Lydia hisses, because she supposes that is the one upside of this. “But I already bought that damn doll for her.”
“Well, uh… I hope you have the receipt still?” he offers with a meek smile.
“Stiles,” she hisses, because she doesn’t think he fully comprehends the situation here. “It is a week and a half until Christmas. And now I have to go track down an American Girl doll, which might not even still be in stock, after I already bought her the present she’s been asking for for weeks?”
“I mean, we could just tell her Santa’s not real and Mommy already went Christmas shopping instead,” Stiles says, and Lydia groans, dropping her head against her husband’s arm.
“It’s probably wrong to murder my daughter at Christmastime, right?” she groans into his flannel. Stiles loops an arm around her, rubbing her arm comfortingly.
“Yeah, that might put a damper on the Christmas spirit,” he tells her, nodding gravely.
“Ugh,” Lydia says, glancing up from her husband’s flannel to see all three of her children, sitting around Santa and smiling brightly for their photo. Emilie is perched on his knee, an angelic smile on her face, Felicity and Nolan leaning in next to her from the sides of the chair, Santa laughing merrily with arms around all three of them. “I can’t wait for Christmas to be over.”
“Hey now,” Stiles says, giving her a look. “That’s not very holiday spirit-y.”
“You want me to have holiday spirit?” Lydia says, but most of her initial anger has faded, melting away at Stiles’s warm touch. “I’ll have holiday spirit on one condition.”
“Name it,” Stiles says, nodding confidently.
“Next year, you are in charge of figuring out what our children want for Christmas and purchasing it for them.”
Stiles laughs, squeezing her tight. “Okay. Deal.”
Their kids scramble off of Santa’s lap, the elf helpers handing them candy canes and goodie bags before getting ready to usher them back to their parents. “One more thing?” Lydia adds, and Stiles nods, letting her know he’s listening.
“We are never again doing any Christmas shopping for them until after we visit Santa.”
Stiles laughs again, turning towards her and kissing her forehead quickly, as their children come running back to them.
“Sounds like a plan.”