Christmas was mildly confusing last year for David. We did our best to teach him the story of Jesus' birth, but there was a lot for a two-year-old to be confused by. After countless nursery Sunday School lessons, family home evenings, and trips to old frescoed churches ("David, can you find Jesus on the ceiling?"), suddenly the guy with the beard was some man named Joseph, and Jesus was a baby?? To make matters worse, David had a new baby sister...named Mary. So he eyed us suspiciously when we explained that Mary was the mommy. (Shouldn't Mary be the baby?) We diligently recounted the story throughout the month of December. (His favorite part was when the innkeeper said, "No room!") But we weren't entirely successful in our efforts. In fact, after we had shown him our Luke II video a couple of times, he started requesting to watch "the show about when Mary was born." Apparently, all of our hard work had resulted in his believing that his baby sister was born in a barn.
I just didn't have the energy to introduce Santa Claus too. So last year we had a Santa-free Christmas. It was nice. We visited the live nativity at The Greene, and skipped Santa's cabin. We talked about shepherds and wise men instead of elves and reindeer. Sure, our stockings were filled on Christmas morning. But David didn't require any sort of explanation on how that came to be. I liked our Santa-free Christmas. But I rightly suspected it would be our only one.
Ever since David's speech therapist started talking about Santa last summer (yes, last summer--apparently there are no other words that start with "s") and Dora visited the North Pole, Jolly Old Saint Nick has been a force to be reckoned with in this house. My first reaction? Ack! How can I lie?! How can I say with a straight face to my sweet, trusting child that a big fat man in a red suit lives at the North Pole with flying reindeer and small pointy-eared people and desires nothing more than to climb down our chimney on Christmas Eve to deliver a load of toys and goodies? And then two minutes later, not lie, and tell him that God once was a tiny baby, who was born surrounded by a bunch of farm animals while angels sang in the sky to some sheep and their shepherds? I was uneasy about the two Christmas narratives, one not real and one real, both being given credence in our home. I considered giving Santa the boot.
Fortunately for Santa, he has two things going for him. The first is that when we lived in Turkey, we discovered that the Saint Nicholas (from whom Santa Claus metamorphosed) was the bishop of Myra, which is part of modern-day Turkey. I developed some interest in this native of Turkey, and I discovered that he's a pretty neat guy, someone worth remembering. That softened my heart a little towards our modern Santa. (I have dreams of one day teaching our children about Saint Nicholas, but David and Mary aren't quite ready for a nuanced discussion of how today's hyper-commercialized Santa was once a nice Christian bishop who saved some sisters from being sold into prostitution by their loving father.)
The other good thing for Santa is that I am lazy. Santa Claus is an enormous, unstoppable cultural avalanche. I might possibly be able to save my own home from being swept up in this avalanche, but that would be way too much work. It's much easier for my languorous self just to go along with the Santa thing. Besides, I prefer to use what energy I have to protect my children from, say, pornography, bigotry, and television commercials. And, really, I don't want my kids going to school making some smart ass announcement on the playground that "Santa Claus isn't real!" I'd much prefer that their smart ass announcements be more along the lines of "There are too Mormon Democrats!" or "Girls don't have to be the slim, shiny, empty packages that society dictates they be!" With all that is wrong with the world, Santa doesn't seem worth the fight. So he gets a pass. Santa Claus is thus welcome in our home (albeit half-heartedly).
With all this on my mind last week, Greg took David to a work Christmas party (while Mary and I stayed home sick). I know just how David is, so I could picture it all perfectly in my mind when Greg recounted what happened: When Santa Claus entered the room, David's eyes grew wide, his jaw dropped open, and a look of pure joy and wonderment passed over his face. He clenched his fists tight with excitement and shouted, "Santa! Santa!" He ran to Santa, with his arms wide open, and gave him a huge hug, as if they'd always been the best of friends. He happily sat on his lap, chatting away about all the things he wants for Christmas. He came home floating on a cloud of happiness. Why would I want to tell him that he hadn't talked to Santa? That instead he just sat on the knee of a guy named Joey who, while really nice, doesn't give a hoot about what any kid wants for Christmas? That's when I realized that Santa Claus is fun.
It's fun to pretend that Santa is real, to join in an elaborate, imaginary game with my son. If David wants to believe (and he clearly does right now), then I will play along. I think young children have a capacity for safely weaving fantasy in and out of reality in a way our dull adult brains no longer fathom. After all, my reservations about Santa come from an overly analytical adult mind. While I could probably do without Santa (and would never lie point-blank in response to a direct inquiry as to his reality), there is so much fun and excitement in this cultural tradition. I don't want to miss out on sharing in that fun with my kids. (Besides, once David learns that Santa isn't real, I suspect that, despite my worries, he will not feel massively betrayed--he will be too busy feeling like an oh-so-mature big-shot, joining in the conspiracy for the fun of his younger sibling(s).)
And as for Jesus and the real reason for Christmas? That will always be (I hope) the center of our Christmas celebrations and traditions. (I think David has finally figured out the difference between Mary the Mother of God and Mary the Baby Sister.) And I have to give my children a little credit. I do believe that they were born with the light of Christ within, that they have an inherent ability, deep within, to recognize truth. So I have to believe that, even now, at some level, David can distinguish the silliness of Santa from the seriousness of the Savior. Besides, I have to hope that three hours of church every Sunday, weekly family home evening, nightly scripture reading, and daily family prayer all year long will have some positive effect, right?
So this Christmas Eve, Santa Claus will visit our house. We even have a chimney. Then when David doesn't get what he asked for (an army tank), I will happily blame the fat guy. And maybe that's why I really like Santa...
