If you are a kid and you’re reading this, shame on you! Really, though. Stop reading now and go outside and play or read a book.
Ok, moms and dads, since it’s Memorial Day, and there shouldn’t be any red flags, I need to talk about how we fuck our kids up with Santa Claus. This guy seems to be the source of the biggest, most easily accepted, and most soul crushing cryptozoological phenomenon in the last thousand years. This jolly, red creation is a force of both joy and crippling disappointment, so why do we do it?
As a dad of an almost seven-year-old, I have had to dodge the landmines of my son’s classmates with older siblings telling their peers that there is no Santa. My wife and I have had to practice spurious logic in explaining the synchronous presence of Santas at the mall, in front of grocery stores, at school events, at Christmas festivals, on T.V., and pretty much everywhere you look starting around Thanksgiving. Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy. I’m a fan of the vintage style Saint Nicholas, myself. I just know that I’m perpetuating a lie that will inevitably destroy my credibility with my son.
I remember that first Christmas after I found out that there was no such thing as Santa, and I remember having to keep up the ruse for my younger brother, thinking, “You poor, poor bastard. If you only knew what is coming.” My brother is much more emotionally reserved than I am, so he seemed to take it on the chin way better than I did. Santa would be my argument winner for any religious teachings that have followed since. I’m not saying that religion has no merit, because I believe in the Big ‘Ol Clockmaker and the power of faith and prayer, but you’d better not pee dogma on my leg and tell me it’s raining because I have worked through the Santa thing.
As someone who has committed to keeping the faith in the potential shattering of faith, I have to admit that I love it. I enjoy seeing the joy on my son’s face on Christmas morning. I love it when my wife writes a reply letter from Santa and puts it in the mailbox for my son to read. I even like the attempt to get him to see the man with the bag at the mall (still no dice, there). So, am I putting me and my son through psychological boot camp for my own enjoyment? Well, maybe a little.
Santa is fun, but damn it if I don’t get a knot in my belly when I think about that inevitable talk. I’d much rather explain the mysteries of death, where babies come from, or why no one but you, the doctor, or, in a pickle, your parents should ever touch your privates (he’ll figure out the joys of a simple tug job on his own). Maybe Santa is our cultural reminder of the sour and the sweet. Maybe Santa sets us up to be able to handle feeling crestfallen when we learn our parents love us but are fallible humans, institutions are only as good as our active involvement, and that people might just disappoint us (thanks a fucking lot, Bill Cosby). Perhaps Santa is the problem that we’re supposed to reconcile to help us come around to understanding the spirit of Christmas. I just wish it didn’t have to hurt my kid.
Have a good day!
Otto Scungy
Happy Life Day! May the… awe, fuck it.
I want to believe.
Remember the empty threat of no presents for Christmas?
As good an explanation as any…
Have a good day!
Otto Scungy
