IMPERSONATING MAGICAL BEINGS: SANTA CLAUS
So we have already covered off a few of the most egregious issues at play with the parental side-gig OF impersonating magical beings. Namely. 1) unideal sleep pattern requirements, 2) total and utter thanklessness for doing all the work, while getting none of the credit. The Santa scenario added a third: Big Fat Lies. I am okay with spinning a tale. But there are so many potential plot holes in the Santa mythology that it inevitably leads to a string of heatfelt questions that can only be answered with bold faced lies.
I hate that. And also am terrible at it.
The whole fiction really falls apart when older (but not old enough to believably, or consistently, carry the party line) siblings have grown out of the Santa-washing phase, while the youngest is still in full bait/line/sinker mode. Then the parent’s roll must extend from being a pathological liar, to encouraging their children to spew falsehoods. (Good training for their teen years, I suppose.)
Cut to C being of an age where she is on the cusp of “aging out”. The older girls are in the know, and have been recruited as (terrible) undercover agents in the whole Santa sting operation. Whether its the sisters’ Inspector Clouseau subterfuge, or just six year old ‘worldliness’, C is clearly suspicious. This presents an exciting challenge! How to gift her with one last year of magical magic when her spidey senses are on high alert? By getting her the ONE thing that her Moma would never, ever, ever get her:
Yet. Another. Stuffy.
The accumulation over years of “please?????”, Garage Sales, Beanie Baby fads, and birthday fairy gifts - multiplied by 3 - meant that our household was a veritable safari of stuffed animals. A fact that I complained about on a daily basis. So C would never think that I had bought her a stuffy. A stuffy was the perfect last Santa gift.
But any old stuffy wouldn’t do the trick. I need a stuffy to end all stuffies.
This requires me to use one of my lifelines. Namely, “phone a friend”. Because I needed to go to Costco.
Being someone with a GINORMOUS personal space bubble; no storage space; and zero attraction to a “good deal” … nothing better expresses my love for my youngest child than the fact that I was willing to go to Costco to buy her the worlds biggest, and most unethically priced Stuffy.
Each year Costco carries a single human sized stuffy. That year it was a gigantic Moose. And it was perfect. Enter friend who has a Costco membership and an enthusiasm for creating magical moments. Fortunately we are still driving mini vans, so can load Moose (soon to be “Griswald”) into the back of one child mover, then transfer him to my hockey mom convenance, and drive him 2 hours away to the cottage where the Christmas morning reveal will occur.
Mission Griswald goes off perfectly. C looses her mind. The Magic continues. Moma rocks. Moma’s friend with the Costco membership rocks.
Skip ahead 11 months. I am SUPER excited because I think that this will be the first year where I can get the credit & cookies (but not the milk (gross)) that would otherwise have gone to Santa. But no. C is holding on to the fiction. This is smart of her. What if the stockings and gifts stop coming as soon as she cops to not believing anymore? Of course, you will maintain willful ignorance! She’s no fool!
At this critical juncture, C is fixated on bringing Griswald back to the city so that it/he can lie in the one remaining 4x4sf open space in her room. We are at the sports dome killing yet another hour on the sidelines of track practice, fending off a soar throat induced by the off gassing of the fake turf. C is giving me the bring-Griswald-home gears. I am starting to lose consciousness as my throat succumbs to anaphylaxis. I am not thinking clearly. And also, as stated, I am a terrible on-the-spot liar.
C: “Why can’t Griswald come home?"
Me: “Because he took up the entire back seat to get him to the cottage in the first place.”
…Oops…Loooooooooooooooong awkward pause.
Me: “If you want to ask me a question. I will give you an honest answer”
C, after some thoughtful consideration: “Did Santa bring me Griswald?”
Me, inside: Hallelujah!!!! I am free. Finally, blissfully, free from the last vestiges of consumerism induced parental fiction. Hooray!
Me, to C: "No Honey. Santa didn't give you Griswald. Mommy gave you Griswald." [read: because your Moma frickin' rocks]
Enter older siblings, to whom C reports this earth-shattering discovery. They (being well trained minions/brain washing co-conspirators) start falling over themselves saying “No! Santa is Real! Santa brings your Christmas Gifts!”
C: “Well, Mommy brought me Griswald….but Santa brought me everything else.”
Me: sigh.