The Question of Santa
On mamas’ nights out, we inevitably end up talking about our children. On a recent gathering with my mommy friends, it was the weekend after Thanksgiving and already the ads from retailers were full bore inundation of Christmas everything. We are mamas of young children, and so it was no surprise that the topic of Santa Claus came up. Beyond just the question of what we would give or not give our kiddos was the question of what we would tell our little ones or NOT tell them about Santa.
A good friend was outright with how she’s handling it in her home: “we’ve told her that Santa is make-believe.” My eyes involuntarily widened in surprise. She went on to explain that theirs is a more realistic view of the holiday and perpetuating the myth that there is some jovial man who leaves gifts below the tree reinforced materialistic messages surrounding the holiday. She went on to argue that her daughter was plenty creative on her own and didn’t need the restrictions of a narrow cultural construct to understand the meaning of Christmas. Fair enough, I thought.
Another friend, who was raised in El Salvador, explained that she would tell her son that Santa wasn’t real as well. Her experience with the mysteries of Christmas were centered more around the nativity story and the birth of Jesus. “We say that baby Jesus brings gifts,” she offered. Wow. Even more surprise from me, since this very religious focus of Christmas to the exclusion of a Santa figure was new to me. I had to clarify—“so there was no story of a literal man coming to your home with gifts?” She said no, but that she did remember that a US manufacturing company in her home town was her introduction to the idea that children get toys at Christmas. I began to wonder if my story was just a US thing.
I grew up in the Midwestern US, believing in Santa. My parents fueled the ideas and the belief in the mysteries of Christmas. I believed it all: the North Pole, the sleigh, the reindeer flying and more. I rationalized Santa’s magical abilities when inevitably the question of “how does he get to every child’s home in the whole world in one night?” came up among my young friends. He was supernaturally enabled, an agent of Jesus maybe? I didn’t know for sure, but it didn’t matter. Santa wasn’t in competition with “the reason for the season” for me.
In Sunday School and in worship I heard over and over the story of the traveling pregnant woman and her husband, how they were turned away at the inn and how a star guided the three wisemen to their exact location like some ancient GPS device. None of that phased me either. You know what I found challenging to believe? How far I imagined them walking. It seemed slow and miserable. I imagined lots of wind blowing sand in their faces the whole way. I found it hard to believe they were turned away. Didn’t the innkeeper know who she was and the baby she carried? This would at least cause one to draft an angry letter to the Inn’s Customer Service department, no? Hmm—there was no mention of that in the story.
But no, I didn’t have any problem believing in Santa. He was pure magic. His story was so fantastical that it dared not be believed. Besides, I didn’t want to roll the dice on getting presents, so of course I believed he was real. It was a much more fun story as a child to believe than to question the Jesus story, so I believed them both. They kind of fit together, it seemed.
I wrote letters to Santa when I was very young, I may have even mailed them, I can’t remember now. But this changed later on, into telepathically sending him my wish list. I figured if he knew my name, my address, the dimensions of my chimney and whether or not I’d been good all year, he for sure knew which toys I wanted that year. A letter was a superfluous formality, I reasoned. One thing I never left out was the note and the cookies. Every year, I’d leave cookies, milk and carrots for the reindeer (my mom’s wise suggestion) along with a note saying hi and wishing him safe travels. And you know, I always got a note back from him. How thoughtful he was to take the time to write me back! I only got suspicious years later when I noticed Santa’s handwriting was super close to my mom’s. But, no matter.
My parents never denied the existence of Santa Claus, and I never asked. I wanted to believe he was real. To me, this was a wonderful gift: the choice to believe. It wasn’t a giving over of rational thought followed by unicorns and fairies. Instead, it was a lesson in embracing and celebrating things we don’t fully understand. It was a way to learn gratitude for the mystery of being loved.
That is what I want to teach my son as I aid his belief in Santa. I remember how much fun it was for me to roll it around in my mind as a young child. The question of Santa was a treasure chest of magic and play, lined in red velvet. This grandfatherly figure came extravagantly dressed to remind me that I was special and deserved being included in his herculean effort to deliver all those gifts in his one grand outing per year. I want my son to know he is that special, too.
Whatever the traditions surrounding Christmas and Santa that we mamas discussed, all fit our own specific families and how we choose to participate in the meaning of the holiday. We all returned to similar ideas of celebrating with families and friends, gathering for good food, good cheer and to embrace one another. This special effort to show each other love is the gift, and the belief in that love is the gratitude. That’s the special delivery Christmas brings, whether it’s delivered by Santa or not.
