Bill is an advertising copywriter who lives in Niagara Falls, NY with his wife Jenn and daughter Katie. He still finds it shocking that the universe has entrusted him with the fate of another living thing! Congratulations to Bill and family as they will welcome a new little Paterson to the world this spring.
This time of year, my Mini-Me, like yours, is fixated on the portly, fictional sleigh-jockey. Sure, Santa is essentially a toddler meth dealer, but I totally get the appeal. I can even reach back into my pre-401(k)-riddled consciousness to recall the euphoric anticipation of free plastic crap shaped like my favorite characters. For some reason, all spawn become instinctively ebullient at the mere mention of the original “weird beard.” If you sense a “but” coming, here it is. You see, although He of the Unflattering Red Velour Pants may be a bearer of infinite jolliness, he does come saddled with one major side effect: his sack of toys turns me into a lying sack of shizzle.
Now I’m not talking so much about the morality of perpetuating the actual ruse itself. I’m all about sprinkling around some white lies when the crime is victimless. And I’m quite willing to look past the fact that Ole Nicky gets a lot of credit for efforts that I’m putting forth. (I don’t see his tubby backside fending off the hip check of some evil mom-lady in the big box store.)
But none of that is the issue. No, the real problem is the barrage of half-truths and flat out bull$%&@ that I’m required to spew in order to keep this elaborate charade afloat. Which is a real mind blowing conundrum considering that lying would theoretically land one on the naughty list to begin with. Indeed, propping up the Santa myth requires the skills of a pathological liar, or at least a trial lawyer.
With each conversation, I feel like a murder suspect who can’t keep up with his own story. It starts innocently enough as Katie asks, “How does Santa get into our house. We have to lock the doors, right?” And there I am with a lazy, “Uh, yeah, but he comes down the chimney.” Katie, unsatisfied: “Where does the chimney go? I don’t see it.” Damn, this isn’t going away, “Oh, well, our house doesn’t…some houses don’t…and so we leave him a special key, so he can…come in the door.”
Another volley: “But what if someone else finds the key, could they get in our house?!” Sarah Palin did not face such a badgering onslaught. “Well, we can leave him some magic pixie dust, and that will open the…Look, the cat is eating your Ariel doll!”
How can the proprietor of this beautiful mind be only four years old? It’s like taking on the love child of Stephen Hawking and Hannibal Lechter in a battle of wits. You’d think the worst was over, but I’m nowhere close to being free of this spiraling descent into dishonesty. Next it’s, “How does he get to all those houses in one night?” I expected to have at least five more years before having to spin that one. (Especially considering that I was ELEVEN when I figured it out.) Another weak rejoinder, “Well, his sleigh is magical and he has a GPS and…”
The rout is on when the subject of fake mall Santas is broached. “Well, why is he in the store, why isn’t he making toys? It’s almost Christmas.” I take one last feeble shot, my lies compounding like Cheez Whiz in the jolly old elf’s arteries: “There is more than one Santa, he has lots of helpers.” “Why does he need help?” This is followed by an argument positing that if the big fella can get around the whole world in one night, the freakin’ slacker outta be able to put in a few man hours in our local mall.
That sound in the distance is the death rattle of my argument. Cuz now we have reached what you might think would be the very innocent topic of Toys for Tots – and I am fresh out of falsehoods. And I walk right into the trap like a neophyte high school debater.
Katie: “Why do we give toys away?” Ready to dispense a lesson in philanthropy I say, “Well, because some kids’ parents don’t have much money – and all little kids should get toys on Christmas.” With ninja-like precision she offers: “But why doesn’t Santa Claus bring them presents. Just because they’re poor?” Well played, miniature Yoda. How do I respond to that? “Yes, Katie, Santa hates the indigent. Like a tribal warlord or the Bush administration.”
Man, there is no retort for any of this. No counter argument. She has systematically deconstructed the entire foundation of a centuries-old tradition. But trust this: I will cook up some new lies to answer back with next year. Because despite her penchant for litigation, the kid really does love Santa.
Epilogue (Always wanted to write that) Well friends, Katie will be turning five next year. And with this site featuring “baby” quite prominently in the title and all, it seems that my time should be drawing to a close. The thing is, I dig spooning out this nonsense every couple months. So, I talked to the wife, we juggled some priorities, and, for the good of the column, we figured hell, let’s reproduce one last time. Meaning that a slippery new mammal will be infiltrating my home in May 2010.
And I will have plenty more shenanigans to write about.
Ok…I know there are some folks out there who identify with Bill’s plight. Here’s your chance to share your experiences.
