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The Santa Thing [Note – Secrets will be given away. If you believe still believe in Santa Claus and would rather not have your tender faith shattered into infinite and possibly psychologically hazardous pieces, please stop reading now.] [Another Note – There will not be any God or Jesus talk either. This is just about Christmas] My oldest daughter, Emma, never really cared for Santa. In the malls that Santa called home, she would shy away and bury her head in a parental shoulder whenever she saw him. She resolutely refused to have him visit our house for the Christmas chum-fest. There was no discernable reason for it. He just didn’t work for her. It was only later that a reason was provided. The three of use (my youngest had not yet been born) were strolling through Ann And Hope, the now defunct bastion of discount shopping. We made our way through the topiary maze of polyester and poor taste that made up the clothing department. We saw him coming. Emma, being two years old and short, did not. And, suddenly, like some ghostly strawberry sundae, Santa appeared before her with no warning. She freaked. Freaked freaked. She jumped up into Norah’s arms and let out a wail that shook the store. There are times as parent when your child announces Armageddon that your are sure that you will be arrested or, at a bare minimum, be reported to the local child welfare board. This was one of those times. Santa was stunned. He tried to comfort her (something Santas should never do, by the way), which only increased the trauma. We left the store as quickly as we could. For the next four years, Santa was not welcome in our home. We asked every year and every year the answer was the same. No. Thus, we have never really had to deal with the Santa Thing. I regard Santa as the first really big lie that parents tell their kids. Yes, there’s the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and a few other fictitious characters, but none of them carry the weight of Santa. The Tooth Fairy doesn’t bring you a bike or the Barbie’s Fabulous Health Club and Juice Bar you’ve been waiting all year for. The Easter Bunny brings you candy, which is exciting, but candy pales in comparison to the G. I. Joe Remote Control Cruise Missile that you’ve been waiting for your whole life. In the words of Prince (or The Artist Formerly Known As The Artist Formerly Known As Prince) “nothing compares 2 U.” The arguments for Santa are very simple – It’s all in good fun. It’s always been done this way. Learning that Santa doesn’t exist is a rite of passage. The benefit of Santa, outside of the obvious material one, might be to foster the belief that the world is a wonderful and inspiring place. Simply following the rules and behaving yourself warrant a torrent of presents once a year as a reward. Santa as god-substitute. And who better to fill God’s shoes? In a great number of flavors of Christianity, God is just not a nice guy. “God is Love” is not the standard. In my own Christian upbringing (Presbyterian) God was to be feared. It wasn’t quite fire and brimstone, but there was an awful lot of talk about hell and what happened there. On a weekly basis, you were reminded that it was “my way or the highway”. Every week you, along with the rest of the congregation, had to read a generic statement that said, in effect, I suck. Plus, you only got the reward after you were dead! Is that bullshit, or what?! Santa, on the other hand, is seasonal and much more forgiving. You really only had to watch yourself from November on. You never heard your parents at the beach in August saying, “Jeremiah, throw sand at your sister one more time and Santa won’t bring you any presents”. And even if the thought crossed your mind, you could be fairly sure that Santa, being on vacation, too, would cut you some slack. Santa, unlike God, took vacations. He stopped working and gave you some breathing room. The worst threat with Santa was no presents. You never heard, “Jeremiah, throw sand at your sister again and Santa will throw you into a lake of fire where you will dwell in torment for all eternity”. No presents - Who cares? Lake of Fire – Sounds cool, but.... But you ALWAYS got the presents. Every single year! If your behavior had perhaps not been stellar, you may have gotten more socks and clothes, but you ALWAYS got some cools toys. Always. Santa, unlike God and sometimes your parents, knew that even if you really screwed up during that two-month period, it wasn’t from lack of trying. With Santa it truly was the thought that counted. And even better, it was the good thoughts that counted. Santa wasn’t a mind reader. Thinking about whizzing a spitball at your stupid sister? Didn’t do it, doesn’t count. Thinking about dumping a buttload of worms in your teacher’s desk? Didn’t do it, doesn’t count. He went on the assumption that you really did want to be good. Actions spoke louder with Santa. And at the end of the year, the slate was wiped clean. You got a fresh start on December 26th. You still had to watch yourself, since there was the long shot possibility that the presents could disappear. If they were still there on the first of the New Year, you were home free. The new scoreboard, though, started on the 26th. With God, the pressure was always on. The other cool thing about Santa was that he didn’t kill his son. So, what’s the problem? I don’t remember a lot of my early childhood. I’m not sure why. Perhaps, it was because my family was always on the run from the FBI. I don’t remember the Santa lie unraveling. Chances are good that one of my sisters put the idea into my head. I know a bunch of people, though, who were fairly devastated by it. My wife seemed to have it figured out early. She lived in an apartment building with no chimney. Being the logical woman that she is, she deduced that Santa, whose point of entry was chimneys, must not be who he was billed as. Her parents countered that, in the case of apartment buildings, parents left the doors unlocked. Pragmatic from the get-go, she knew that you did not leave an apartment door in Manhattan unlocked. Perhaps there is some kind of coming-of-age thing to finding out that Santa doesn’t exist. But I don’t see the point of it. There are enough things my kids can find to resent me for without Santa’s fictitious help. (“You wouldn’t play with me because you were busy writing the stupid Santa thing that you wouldn’t tell me about”, springs to mind.) Maybe it’s “Introduction to Ridicule 101” on the playground when you’re one of the last to defend Santa or, conversely, when you’re the first to figure it out and share you’re findings. As a parent, I strive to be on the level with my kids. I take this a sacred trust. If they have a deep splinter that needs to be taken out, I tell them it’s going to hurt and probably hurt a lot. What’s the point of telling them it’s not going to hurt? It’s better for the pain to be not as bad as they thought, than worse than they imagined. The world can be hard enough without starting out with false preconceptions of how things are. It’s far too idealistic view of parenthood, I know, much like believing in Santa Claus.
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