Cookies for Santa

I leaned against the end of the stairwell, watching my mother guide my younger sister’s hand to stir the bowl. Flour dusted the countertops and Dakota’s curly hair, her giggles filling the house. My mother, a woman full of patience, smiled as Dakota pushed her hand away, insisting she could do the task herself.

Dakota was learning how to be more independent, as long as she had Mom’s guidance and instruction. It was endearing but also painful to watch, as it usually ended in a complete mess. Dakota and I had a seven-year age gap, and it was almost upsetting to see the once little red potato turn into a first grader who insisted she could do everything on her own.

Dad’s boots clanked against the linoleum, heavy with the day’s workload. His beanie was covered in snow, a testament to the white Christmas we were finally having. “What are you baking, sunshine?” he asked, his smile matching my mom's.

“Cookies for Santa!” Dakota chirped, her gappy tooth making an appearance. It was her first ever lost tooth, and the sight had made my older brother's heart lurch—as much as I hated to admit it. (I never would).

“And what kind of cookie does Santa like to eat?” Dad replied, leaning against the counter. He looked over and spotted me, fingers beckoning for me to join the family activity as Dakota excitedly spoke about M&M-filled cookies and how they were supposedly Santa’s favorite.

With a tentative step, I stood next to my father. My fingers dug into my palms, leaving moon-shaped indents. I was clearly not a big fan of the loud noises escaping my sister’s mouth, yet she didn’t bother to quiet down. I itched to cover my ears or squeeze my eyes tight, but my dad’s hand on my shoulder grounded me just enough to keep me sane.

“Beck,” he whispered, voice low enough to avoid overstimulating me further, “Are you okay?”

I nodded, trying to avoid words. Talking when overstimulated was like dragging my tonsils across a cheese grater. At least, that’s what it felt like. It was hard to describe to anyone else since they didn’t quite understand.

My mom sent me a sympathetic glance—the one that said she was sorry for the loud noises. She patted Dakota’s shoulder and leaned to whisper in her direction. “Let’s lower the volume, okay?”

“But we’re talking about Sant-uh!” Dakota whined, drawing out the word Santa.

“I know, honey, but sometimes we have to stay quiet, even when we are super excited,” Mom replied.

Dakota huffed, and Dad let out a small chuckle.

The silence between the four of us was filled with the sound of a spatula knocking against the sides of the glass bowl. Mom began pouring M&Ms into the dough, and Dakota’s fist became white-knuckled against the spatula’s handle.

“So…” Dad spoke up, “How many cookies are you betting on Santa eating?”

Dakota, who was still a firm believer in Santa, grinned even wider. “All of them.”

Dad’s eyes widened slightly before returning to normal. Considering Dakota was the only believer in the house still, I stifled a giggle at the thought of Dad having to attempt shoving so many cookies in his mouth tonight.

“All of them?” he squeaked out. He looked over at Mom, pleading for help with his eyes.

“Uh-huh,” Dakota shook her head once. “And I’m going to check the trash too. I’ll leave a complaint to Miss Claus if I have to.” The pout on her face was oddly stubborn yet adorable.

Mom’s hand carded through the hair on Dakota’s head, trying to fish out specs of flour, butter (however that got in there?), and M&Ms. “I’ll have to look for Miss Claus’ phone number if making a complaint is deemed necessary,” she winked, keeping the Christmas spirit alive.

“You have her number?” Dakota squealed, turning around so quickly she nearly knocked over the bowl. “Why didn’t you tell me this?” she tapped her foot against the stepstool.

“It’s for emergencies only, sweetheart. Including a once-a-year complaint,” Mom made up.

I rolled my eyes. Dad’s hands on my shoulders began kneading, trying to keep me in tune with the conversation. My eyes darted from the bowl of dough up to my dad, who loomed over me at a solid 6 feet 3 inches.

“Do you need to wait somewhere quieter, or are you okay for now?” Dad asked.

I shot him a thumbs-up to let him know I was okay.

Once the oven beeped, Dakota grinned so wide her dimples popped through. “Mom! Help me put them in the oven!” she paused, dough caked on her sticky little hands, “...Please.”

“Beckham,” Mom pleaded as her phone began to ring across the kitchen. “Mind putting the cookies in the oven for me? Timer is already set.”

I sighed and peeled away from my dad, hands already reaching for the tray of cookies. Once the oven was open, the 350-degree air blowing toward me, I shoved the tray in and hoped for the best.

As I shut the oven door, I looked around the kitchen. It was a complete, utter mess, the one only a six-year-old could muster. Dakota stood in the middle of it, looking like she had just fought the gingerbread man herself. Dad and I shared a look—the one that screamed run. Dad and I both took off in separate directions, both of us saying, “Not it!” (Because great minds think alike, and no one wants to clean someone else’s mess).

I ran off to my room upstairs, my long legs (thanks to my recent growth spurt) carrying me up in a matter of seconds. Dad had taken off to the garage, claiming that something needed his attention outside. Dakota continued to stand in the middle of the kitchen, her head swiveling at how fast she was left alone. Mom remained in the dining room, where she had taken the phone call.

“W-what? Hey!” Dakota’s whiny voice echoed throughout the first floor to the second. “Where did everyone go?” After no response from any of us, Dakota hopped off the stepstool, her tiny feet making more noise than they should have. “I need that number to Miss Claus right now!”