Seed: The Santa Claus question
This year there will be no breathless anticipation of Santa and his gifts. My kids have outgrown the jolly old elf. We've even eliminated the element of a Christmas morning surprise, giving them a $100 budget and letting them pick out their stuff on-line. I know it's a cop-out. But oh, the sweet release!
I miss the magic, though. I loved playing Santa Claus and watching the boys as they composed their letters, left milk and cookies, worried about the fireplace being too narrow. It was sweet. When my youngest heard vicious rumors on the playground, he argued with the skeptics and nearly came to blows. Then he hurried home and asked The Question.
"Tell me the truth, Mom, and don't lie. Is Santa Claus real?"
That was it. The end of innocence. The death of magic. Just what are we doing to our kids when we blatantly tell falsehoods, weaving far-fetched stories about some ageless guy obsessed with giving toys to good little girls and boys? Is this one of my childhood experiences that contributed to the overall warped human being I've become? I like to believe it's a relatively harmless rite of passage, but is it more dangerous than we've been led to believe?
I don't remember my first encounter with Santa, although there's photographic evidence. A Polaroid, colors fading with age, shows Mom dangling me at the old fellow's side while I howl, face scrunched into a howl of terror. But I eventually grew to trust him as my whispered confidences turned into major loot on Christmas morning.
I vividly remember the first time I experienced some real magic. Visiting my Arkansas grandparents, we saw snow for the first time. I wasn't more than 5 years old, and my sister and I heard a strange knock on the door. My dad opened it and pulled two dolls off the front porch.
"Look what Santa brought!" he exclaimed. "I think I can catch him and get some more toys for you girls."
"No, Daddy, don't do it!" We were terrified Santa would take the dolls away once he caught wind of this breech of etiquette. But Dad rushed outside, leaving us squealing in the front room. Back in moments, he brushed the snow off his clothes and told us an elaborate tale of boot prints, reindeer and a sleigh taking off right in front of his eyes. How could we not believe in Santa Claus after that? We were probably in our teens before we finally gave it up.
I know there's a good argument for discontinuing this tradition. But there's also plenty of good arguments for continuing it. I, for one, really wanted to be Santa Claus for my kids. I wanted to be part of the magic. Our oldest son suffered no damage. He came to the realization on his own that Santa did not exist. The youngest, however, seemed to suffer greatly when he learned we had made it all up. When I asked him to help me put up the Christmas tree a couple of weeks after, he glared at me. "What's the point?" A nihilist at the age of 6.
What about it, Saint and Bunky? What's the answer to the Santa question?
Labels: belief, magic, Santa Claus
posted by Adjective Queen @ 4:08 PM,
