Oh Santa. Here we go again. You know, for years I avoided you, really I did. Despite the fact that I am an ex-elf and someone who loves Christmas, for some reason I just didn’t want to get into this with you. This whole business you’re involved with. You know.
But you’re everywhere, Santa. We see you in the mall and at Christmas parties. We see you on cards and wrapping paper and everything, everything Christmas. So even though I didn’t talk about you, there you were, and my daughter seemed to know a lot about you even though I had never mentioned your existence.
My daughter would ask me questions about you, and to be honest, I would cop out. Really. Sorry, but that’s the best I can do. I don’t want to burst her bubble, I don’t want to tell her something that isn’t true. Really, Santa, you’ve got me in a moral quandary here. So I just ask her what she thinks. And she tells me all about you, from where you keep the reindeer to the fact that you give everyone one present. How does she know all of this stuff? No idea.
And when we visit you at the mall, she loves to chat with you. She tells you she wants a realistic doll. The realistic part is the important bit. She asks me if you make the toys for real, or if you just go shopping. I shrug. I tell her to ask you. Cop out again.
Santa, you’ve got me here. Your ubiquitous presence means that I tend to go along with you as an icon even when I’m not totally comfortable with consumerism. Sure, I love the idea of holiday giving. I love the idea of giving any time, actually. It’s those little voices asking for stuff that bug me. I want to instill in them a belief in the goodness and beauty of humanity and not instill in them a person who is viewed as the portal to more stuff.
So I don’t know, Santa. I cop out, and it’s terrible, I know. But so far I just haven’t found a way through this oddball thing that is the mish-mash of the Christmas season.