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He’s worn it every Christmas since.
Which, admittedly, is only twice now. But that’s how traditions start.
“Next!”
Shiloh calls from beside me.
He’s wearing an elf hat and holding a clipboard.
I have no idea why he has a clipboard. He’s five. But apparently being Santa’s assistant is serious business.
A little boy approaches Maverick cautiously.
He’s maybe three. Four at most. Halfway there, he stops.
Maverick immediately notices. “Hey, buddy.”
The boy presses against his mother’s leg.
Maverick doesn’t reach for him. Doesn’t tell him to come closer. He just leans forward, forearms resting on his knees.
“You like dinosaurs?”
The little boy looks at him. Then at the stuffed T. rex beside Santa’s chair.
A tiny nod.
Maverick picks it up.
“This guy’s been causing trouble all day.”
The boy takes one step closer.
“He bites?”
“Constantly.”
Another step.
“Does he bite Santa?”
“Tries to.”
The boy smiles.
Maverick holds out the dinosaur. “Think you could take him home and maybe teach him that biting isn’t nice?”
The little boy comes the rest of the way, nods and takes the dinosaur.
I’ve seen Maverick do this dozens of times now.
With Shiloh. With the kids here. With me.
He never forces his way into someone’s space.
He just makes room. Then waits.
My chest still aches every time I see it.
