Coming Clean on the Santa Thing

A colleague with a young son asked me this week how old my kids were when we came clean on the Santa thing. I had to think about it.

Meg, the ever-thinking and slightly suspicious child, was in second grade when we had to modify the Santa story. She had had a large Christmas, while one of her friends had had a much smaller Christmas. Late Christmas Day, after making the rounds and comparing the loot, she stated with a questioning tone, "I got a lot of stuff cuz I was so good this year, right?" Without even thinking, I mumbled yes, that was true. Then I watched as she knit her little eyebrows into a perplexed, sad expression and replied "so (unnamed girl) wasn't very good, so she didn't get very much." Her concern and her critical thinking skills stopped me dead in my tracks.

I thought for a moment and then knelt down so we were at eye level; I gave her an impromptu explanation about parents having to send money to Santa which meant the size of Christmas was really contingent upon how much money parents sent. I explained that we had fewer children, and so we could probably afford to send a bit more than some of her friend's parents could--you know, a lesson on economics. She accepted that, but I think it modified her belief. I don't remember having another conversation with her about Santa, but I think when her friends started questioning, she already knew. She did write a great story that year, though, about Santa vacationing in Hawaii after Christmas because he had so much money. She illustrated it with a wonderful picture of Santa dominating a huge wave in swim trunks, a Hawaiian print shirt, and a slightly askew Santa hat.

Seth's discovery was a bit more traumatic. He is also a thinker, but he has always wanted to stay young. He was in fifth grade when we decided that we were going to Hawaii for Christmas. We were tired of spending money just to spend. Our kids had everything they wanted and needed, so rather than buy gifts we decided we would make memories. I know the kids at school had been talking about Santa for a couple of years, but Seth had consciously chosen to continue in belief. When we announced our trip plans, Seth was immediately concerned about the trip because we wouldn't be home for Christmas. He was worried about how Santa would find us. We sat him down and told him he was old enough to know the truth. We explained that rather than toys, we were gifting travel, and that he ought not to expect gifts that year.

I thought he took it well. No tears. No anger. Just simple resignation. We had a great trip and nothing more was said . . . until Easter. I had been shopping and picked up some Easter candy. When I got home, I only halfheartedly hid the treats since, I thought, we were finished with the charades. After school a day or two later, I heard him rummaging through the closet for food. I heard the Easter candy bag rustle and so I hollered, "stay out of that. It's for Easter." He walked in with the most dejected look I had ever seen and a tear was forming in the corner of his eye. He could barely get out his indignation: "so, you're telling me the Easter Bunny isn't real either?" I could barely contain laughter as I apologized for the clumsy revelation.

Santa is an interesting tradition--a tradition that some people find harmful, but one that I like. Even though the shattering of the myth is sometimes traumatic and even though Santa sometimes detracts from the celebration of Christ, I believe the myth is worth transmitting. The idea that someone has that kind of love for children, the notion that children are accountable in some small way for their behavior (even if it promotes a capitalist reward system), and the magic of the imaginary are ideals worth promoting. Perhaps that imaginative play is in some cases psychologically beneficial in childhood development. It was for me and mine. And besides that, I kind of liked my turn playing Santa in the production that is Christmas.

Written 15 December 2015

Santa, Mrs. Claus, and at least one Elf might be related to me!

Me and (dare I say?) the "F-word"

One of my first gender memories occurred when I was about 7 years old. My parents had college friends that lived in Heber City and ran a small hotel. As I remember, Red and Petra were their names. I was intrigued by them. As a red-head myself, I couldn't imagine someone naming their red-headed kid Red; Petra was from Germany and sported a strong accent and hair-do that looked something akin to a bird's nest perched on top of her head. Sometimes I just stared at it, trying to imagine what might be living in there.

Red and Petra had a son a year older than me. I can't remember his name, but I do remember that we had the same birthday and that when we discovered this, he announced loudly and proudly that if we got married, I would have to make two birthday cakes....every year. I was young, but I remember feeling indignant about the comment--obviously promlatic since I still remember it. Perhaps I was upset by the idea that I would need to make my own cake on my own birthday, but the way I remember it I was upset by the idea that baking would be my job. A woman's job,

I felt similar feelings several times as I grew up. In fact, when I got married and was counseled, among other things, to submit to my husband, I remember confidently thinking that did not apply to me and quickly rejecting the idea. I'm sure Mitch has wished on more than one occasion that submit were a skill I possessed.

I finally came across a framework for these feelings when I innocently enrolled in a "feminism" course while I was in graduate school. I spent a semester studying feminism and feminist texts from an intellectual and historical perspective. Mitch took the class vicariously (whether he wanted to or not). I shared with him most of what I learned and felt over the course of the semester. He was a good sport, always willing to listen and offer support.  At the end of the semester, he pronounced that he felt so "liberated" as a result of this course. I was immediately defensive.  In fact, I lectured him in a loud voice that this course was about centuries of oppression towards women and that I couldn't believe he was somehow making it about him. So like a man, I remember thinking.

After I calmed down and realized I needed to mend hurt feelings, I asked him what he meant by that comment. He told me in all seriousness that he had never felt like he had a choice as to his future. As a man, he felt like he was required to get a requisite education so that he could secure a job to provide for his family. End of story. He boldly stated that he now felt like he had an option: he could stay home and raise the kids if he chose to. 

I knew at that moment that what I had been offended by so many years before was the idea of equality and choice. I had thought it wasn't fair that I had to make both cakes. And as I have matured in my thinking, I have also realized that while many inequities over the centuries have been directed towards women, those inequities also pigeonhole men. It certainly isn't fair to men that we provide gender constructs so rigid that many men feel like they have no choice about their futures.

All we really want in regards to gender issues, I believe, is choice and then subsequent respect for those choices. Choice over who we are, what we become, what will be required of us, and respect for our decisions as we do our best to live them out (consequences and all). We owe that to each other. Most importantly, we owe that to ourselves.

Written 25 October 1016

I Need a Beach!

I'm lying on the beach listening to the waves, soaking up heat, watching surfers battle their competition with occasional success, enjoying families as they play and bond and laugh. As I burrow my toes deep enough into the sand to feel coolness, I soak it all in and breathe. I am truly relaxed.

I find myself thinking everyone needs a beach, that, in fact, every state should have its own beach within a short and easy drive--at least the state that I live in.  I grumble to myself that a ten-hour drive should not be requisite to this feeling.

But I immediately talk myself out of such nonsense. I don't live in Southern California for a reason. Not everything about the locale elicits these same feelings of fondness. I am not a fan of traffic, the sheer numbers of people overwhelm me, the high crime rate and high natural disaster rate (I know this from the media) alarm me. Those things stress me out. When I visit Southern California, it is actually only on the beach that I feel relaxed, and even then not always. Sometimes the trained lifeguard that is me feels obsessive about the wave or the current or the negligent parent.

And then, as I think this through further, I realize there are plenty of places at home that provide a similar kind of relaxation: a canyon drive, that spot on the couch with a book or an iPad or a remote in my hand, an unscripted conversation and long walk with a friend.

As I lounge on the beach in my relaxed and contemplative state, I am left to conclude that it isn't necessarily the location that is truly important. The essential awareness is knowing ourselves well enough to orchestrate relaxation when we need it.  Simply knowing you need a beach is sometimes the equivalent of finding one.

Written 11 October 2015