The First Tree - Chapter 7

Santa’s bedroom
Santa opened his eyes. Although it was still dark beyond his bedroom window, he could already hear noises coming from downstairs in the kitchen. His years of living with Mrs. Claus at the North Pole had told him exactly what she was doing. Mrs. Claus, for as long as he could remember, insisted on making breakfast with all the trimmings for the elves during the final week of Christmas. It was one of many Christmas traditions Mrs Claus held sacred. He couldn’t remember how most of them were started, but every year her many traditions were carried out like clock work.
Today would also be her tree day, he thought. It would certainly be quite an exciting week at the North Pole. Santa could hardly wait! He rose slowly from bed, rubbing and scratching his enormous belly through stretched plaid pajamas. Slipping his feet into a pair of worn, wool slippers, he lifted his arms over his head and yawned. Santa stood, wobbily, and while still stretching, glanced over into the bedroom mirror and admired his rotund physique. Oh yes, he was looking good.
Santa’s pajamas were made from a large red and green plaid flannel print, long sleeved, with two deep breast pockets on either side, secured with large round wooden buttons. A matching droopy flannel cap sat on top of Santa’s head. The cap flopped to one side and narrowed to a point where a tiny white ball of fluff was secured. The fluffy material blended nicely with his bushy snow white beard which rumbled and rolled, tapering down across his large barrel chest
Santa was still absentmindedly looking at himself in the mirror, mentally organizing his tasks of the day, when he noticed something alarming. Squinting into the mirror, Santa’s hand slid to his right shirt pocket. Looking down confirmed his suspicion, his pocket was beginning to fray and become separated along one side. "Drat.....Drat! On my favorite pair of pajamas too," Santa fussed, playing with the growing hole. Turning his body in the mirror so that his pocket was more prominently displayed, he examined it again through the reflection, hoping to find a more favorable outcome. After a few long moments playing with the growing hole, Santa sighed, resigned himself, shrugged in disgust, and ambled dejectedly out the door toward the kitchen. This was not a good start to his week, he thought. The pocket would have to be fixed at once.