My daughter lost a tooth a couple of weeks ago which resulted in an unfortunate discussion about “the truth”. As she stomped her little foot in the kitchen with her arms crossed over her chest yelling “Tell me the truth! Is there a tooth fairy? Or an Easter Bunny? You tell me the truth, IS SANTA REAL?” The sick, twisted part of my brain wanted to yell back in my best Jack Nicholson impression, “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH”, but instead we had a very emotional discussion about the fact that there is no Santa Claus. She is 11, so I feel pretty good about making it this far and my son believed until he was 12. If it weren’t for the darn tooth fairy, I think I could have pulled off another year. For some reason, an overweight bearded man flying in a sleigh filled with toys for 100,000,000 children around the world seems more plausible than a diminutive fairy that takes teeth and leaves cash. The Santa façade I created is certainly an extensive one, and in hindsight, I should have planned better so that maintaining the appearance of Santa did not involve quite so much time and props and well, fairly elaborate lies. Some people I know have Santa bring the stocking; others have Santa deliver only one present per child. For us, Santa hauls the whole wad with a few presents sprinkled in from “mom and dad.” Not a wise move if one plans to keep the story going for ten years.
Perhaps the high hoops through which I jump stem from my childhood experience with Santa. I have always loved Christmas and everything that goes with it: the lights, colors, music, decorations and excitement. I still feel like a child this time of year, and I start decorating my home in late November so that I get the full month of December to celebrate the season. My mother was wonderful at creating this charming atmosphere during the holidays and I am thankful for that. However, my mom was not quite as good about preserving the Santa veneer. When I was a wee child of just seven years old, I must have heard some grumblings on the bus, or saw a strange commercial, or perhaps even had some fit of pragmatism that prompted me to ask if there was a Santa Claus. I thought I asked my mother, but the response I got was from George Washington. “I cannot tell a lie, Kristie – there is no Santa Claus.”
“What?” For god’s sake, I was 7! I didn’t ask if she cut down a flipping cherry tree, I asked about Chris Cringle. I didn’t really want to know there wasn’t a Santa. I wanted reassurance from a parental figure that magic does exist, that reindeer (despite their four legs and lack of wings) do fly! I didn’t want to be thrust into the world of doubters and jaded non-believers. I was shocked, saddened, and thoroughly disappointed that my mom was such a shitty liar. From then on, I worked doubly hard to keep the illusion going for my brother. Whenever he expressed any sort of uncertainty, I quickly assured him of Santa’s magical powers of flight, omniscience, appetite and stealth. “And whatever you do, don’t ask mom!”
When my son was born, I couldn’t wait to thrust my enthusiasm for Christmas upon him. I remember shoving the stocking knit by my grandmother with his name on it in his fat little hands when he was just four months old as the two of us sat near the tree early on Christmas morning. I did a pretty good job too, by the age of 3 he had memorized ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’ and he could decorate a tree like a professional.
Of course, both my kids have asked about Santa repeatedly through the years, and while I am a really terrible liar (genetic), I can pull it together for this particular question.
“Of course there is a Santa, I would never get you a blow dart gun!”
“Mommy and Daddy could never in a million years wrap all those presents!”
“Since we don’t have a chimney this year, we will just leave the door unlocked.”
“I have no idea why Santa put lacy thong underwear in Mommy’s stocking.”
My husband does not share my enthusiasm for the holidays. I think perhaps men in general fall into this category. In the naiveté of my youth, I pictured us drinking wine, smiling and lovingly wrapping presents for the kids together on Christmas Eve. This has in fact, never happened (while my mom was exposing me to the less than cheerful facts about the holidays, she could have alerted me to this little tidbit). One Christmas Eve he totally lost it; as we were frantically wrapping presents in our closet (so we could get to bed before 2 am in the hopes of getting 4 hours of sleep) he reached for the wrong paper.
“You can’t use that paper, that gift is from Santa, you have to use the red polka-dotted paper,” I told him.
“Jesus Christ! (His only recognition of Jesus’ involvement in Christmas), you make this so goddamn complicated. The kids are not going to know which paper is from Santa and which is from us!” he yelled.
The next morning when my daughter pointed out that Santa used the same snowflake tape that I did; he was adequately put in his place. He has also not participated in the merriment of Christmas Eve wrapping since. He does, however, drop 20+ f-bombs while we put up our monstrous xmas tree. He dutifully chomps on the carrots left in the yard for the reindeer, and is capable of gobbling his share of Santa’s cookies and milk without complaint.
To some extent, I can sympathize with my mother. Like any good magician – there is certainly a lot of work behind the scenes to create the perfect illusion (particularly without an assistant). But the absolute wonder and joy on their faces on Christmas morning is worth it to me. How often do we have excitement, brilliance, and awe in our lives? Let them believe. In this case, it is ok to tell a lie.
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| Mac and his Christmas Stocking |
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