I don’t know what to do about Santa.

At age 4, Ava has fully grasped what happens on Christmas.  The anticipation of presents has whipped her into a Christmas frenzy, nearly equal to my own holiday stress.

While I worry about shopping, spending, wrapping, decorating, and not baking enough cookies, my daughter writes out party invitations and makes her lists.

Last year we didn’t even talk about Santa, but now he is everywhere.  In books, songs, stores, and front yards.  Eyes wide with perceived magic, Ava drinks in every word.  This is innocence, I think– trusting the parents who are deliberately misleading you.

As a mother, I’ve told my share of white lies and have stretched the truth for a noble cause (”If you don’t brush your teeth, the sugar will rot holes in them…”).  But something about Santa feels wrong to me.

My husband views Saint Nick as a childhood rite of passage– a traditional if clichéd part of the season.

“It’s harmless fun,” he tells me.  “Relax.”

He helps Ava write a letter to the jolly old elf, which they stamp and place in the mailbox.  Two weeks later, Santa writes back!

Against my will, I get swept up in the excitement and rip open the envelope.  I’m impressed that during the recession, someone at the US Postal Service is paid (or volunteers) to send North Pole mail to children.  “Santa” has typed a poem addressed to “My Dear Little Friend, Ava,” alluding to Christmas morning without mentioning presents.  Enchanted with the letter, Ava stashes it in a toddler-resistant spot– not that she needs any proof for her faith.

Meanwhile, an unpleasant sense of betrayal creeps over me.  I feel like a collaborator in an elaborate lie, concocted by adults to fool young children.

Some people oppose Santa on principle, claiming he symbolizes the crass commercialism of Christmas.  I’d rather my daughters didn’t fixate on presents, and I don’t like the “naughty or nice” threats.  But mainly I’m worried about lying to my kids.

According to Piaget’s stages of development, most children outgrow their belief in magical creatures by age 7 or 8.  I can’t remember when I learned the truth about Santa, but it didn’t inflict lasting psychological damage.

Even after I knew, I happily participated in family Christmas traditions– telling Santa stories, laying out carrots, milk, and cookies.  Like my husband said, we were having fun, sharing childhood rituals even after we were no longer children.

But later, as a cynical teenager, I gleefully spilled the Santa beans to my little sister (age 6).  She was devastated, and I took cruel pleasure in breaking her illusion.  Was this pure sibling rivalry or my adolescent attempt to enter the adult world?  Either way, the guilty sting of that memory stops me from building up Santa Claus to my girls.

Maybe Santa would carry less weight as a Christmas symbol if I were more connected to the holiday’s religious origins.  Raised in a secular family, I’ve always felt removed from the religious purposes of Christmas and Hannukah, though I grew up celebrating both.  To fill in the gaps, I try to understand Santa’s cultural history:

The Santa Claus legend has its roots in European folklore, arising from the Norse god Odin, the Dutch Sinterklaas, and the Greek Christian bishop, St. Nicholas, famous for his generous gifts to the poor.  These proto-Santa gift-givers were lean, serious, bearded men; Odin appeared as a skilled hunter upon a white horse, leaving presents and candy in children’s shoes.

Then Father Christmas emerged in Britain in the 17^th century– a well-fed, jolly fellow in a fur-lined coat, symbolizing good Christmas cheer.  The American Santa has grown even fatter, his jelly-belly an emblem of conspicuous consumption.

When he holds court at the mall, it’s easy to target him as a commercial scheme, but his gift-bearing origins are complex, international.

On Christmas Eve morning, Ava asks if Santa will come tonight.  She’s full of questions:  “Will he slide down our chimney?” “Will I hear sleigh-bells?” I try to keep my story vague and mysterious, refusing to confirm specific details.

“Maybe…” I say.  “No one knows exactly what happens.”

“But Mommy, I know,” she replies.

“You do?”

“Yes.  I know because I’ve seen him.  I can fly too.  I’m magic, and I can fly.  There are three magic people in the world– Santa, Mary Poppins, and me.”

For a moment, all my anxieties lift.  I’ve been weighted down with holiday tasks, the pressure of creating a perfect family Christmas– added to the financial burden of shopping and spending.

Growing up, I never realized the effort involved in “putting on” a holiday.  But a heavy part of parenthood is literally carrying out the traditions, keeping alive what you love from your childhood and letting go of what you don’t.

I thought I had to create Christmas magic for my children, but I was wrong.

“You know I’m magic, Mommy,” my daughter repeats.

Nothing can overpower her 4-year-old imagination.  I stop stressing about Santa and grin.

“You’re already magic,” I say.

Tags:   Christmas · preschooler · Santa Claus2 Comments