by Kristen Olberz
Ahh, holiday time! Chestnuts roasting. . .tidings of comfort and joy. . .I have a theory one can take words off an official “Holiday List” and string them together like popcorn and cranberries in almost any order to create a standardized holiday sentiment. Jingle bells rock, yo. Though I will say the line, “Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow. . .” sounds more tubercular than festive. Gotta love that Christmas Spirit!
But that’s not what I’m here to discuss. I’m here to wax poetic on the unveiling of the Santa Lie in a young child’s life. I’ve recently spoken with several parents, all concerned about this unavoidable day as a signpost of the frustrating loss of childhood innocence. I’ve been impressed with the creativity that this stirs up for people as well as the memories that come flooding back.
Some are taking the simple stance of continued denial: “I’m just Santa’s helper, dude. He can’t manage it all by himself . Too many people in the world.” This logic keeps it simple and works well for many as it doesn’t actually deny Santa’s magical existence.
Others have taken the creative stance of assigning Santa to the realm of the Faeries. I worry that there might be an issue with him accidentally stepping on some of the Folk now and again. He’s got on those big black boots and it’s probably hard to see over that belly, right?
Some parents cannot stand the idea of lying and the disappointment that follows, so from the beginning the jig is up. Here’s your stinkin’ present, kid. Love, Scrooge. One friend said that her mother told her there was no Santa so she wouldn’t worry that intruders could get down the chimney and into the house. People, he can only do that because of Magic. Duh.
I’ve heard parents threatening the older children, “Do NOT tell your little sister what you heard at school! Even though it’s completely untrue. If you tell, I’ll make sure Santa doesn’t bring you any presents, mister.” In my case, this was diplomatically guaranteed when they inducted me into the Santa’s Helper Club. In return, I had to keep my mouth shut. I pretended to go to bed with the siblings, then got up an hour later to help set out presents. This worked stupendously until the year I located the stash in early December. My membership was thus suspended. I got my revenge though. I hid a flashlight under my pillow, snuck out at 3 am to survey all the presents, then went back and woke up my sister to see everything. I got all the glory while my parents tossed with the anxiety dreams of assembly instructions and whether there would be enough batteries.
Another friend happily kept on believing at age seven, until her five year old skeptic of a brother bugged a stocking with a walkie-talkie he’d taped down so the receiver stayed on and busted the parents. This kid now runs the CIA.
My discovery story, though no sadder than anyone else’s, went something like this: I have no idea where the hunch came from, but in November of my 7th year, I asked my mom if Santa was real.
Let me just say my mom’s stance, with all “adult” topics has been to stick with the question asked and answer it as simply and honestly as possible. This generally worked out quite well though I still argue with her over what she told me the word, “F*#k,” meant (I asked after I heard the neighbor kid say it). She swears that she didn’t say, “It’s when two people get on top of each other and have a baby they don’t want.” But that was my six year old brain’s takeaway. The hilarity of that story continues to a few weeks later, when I was watching Sesame Street and saw Maria stand on David’s shoulders in the middle of the street. I was pretty sure I knew what they were up to. But I digress.
Her response was, “What do you think?” When I told her I suspected it was them, she countered with, “Do you really want to know?” This pissed me off since the answer was in the question. I would have preferred being blatantly lied to in order to keep the magic alive for a few more years. I felt terribly sad. Still to this day, I spend hours staring at the twinkling tree late into the night sipping eggnog and Kahlua while “The Nutcracker Suite” plays mournfully in the background, longing for Santa and Company.
Our need to believe in something magical and transcendant falls along the same lines as our lifelong search for “God” and universal connection. It is so strong that we will hallucinate to keep the magic going. As we drove back home from my grandma’s each Christmas Eve, we’d stare at the sky looking for the sleigh and reindeer. The exact same planes we saw each night suddenly transformed into Rudolph and we raced home to go to sleep quickly so Santa wouldn’t skip our house.
I remember that Santa actually came to our house when I was about five or six years old. I remember how excited I felt having this special visit. Years later, I saw pictures of this visit. I saw my dark, young, thin Uncle Herb dressed in a plastic Santa outfit that more closely resembled red and white garbage bags.
Another year, I woke up during the night on Christmas Eve, needing to pee. I could hear noise out in the family room that sounded like bells jingling. I lay there in terror of my options: if I got up, I might make too much noise and scare the Elves away. If I didn’t take care of my bladder, I’d have an accident. I finally got up and, using my best ninja skills, stole off to the bathroom and back in practical silence. A friend told me recently she had the same experience, but instead chose to pee in the corner of her room. Terror and awe go hand in hand with Magic, seemingly.
And so, regardless of your approach, I wish for you a very merry holiday season, full of laughter and love (and a little sprinkling of Magic) for you and your family.
Do we even know if Elves and Faeries get along? Let’s hope so. And if you haven’t already heard this, David Sedaris puts it all in perspective here (the Christmas story begins around 5 minutes): Six to Eight Black Men
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