The Santa Myth

WARNING: THIS POST MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN, or the young at heart. 

I've been thinking a lot about Santa lately. 

Working with ESL students from places like Burma and Bhutan means that many of our students have not experienced Christmas like we celebrate it here in the U.S.--and many of them have not celebrated it (or even known anything about it) at all.  Adults and children alike are fascinated by the story.  Imagine trying to explain Christmas to someone (with limited English) who has never heard of it before: 

"A special baby was born in a barn 2000 years ago, so now there's a fat old man in a red suit who flies all over the world in a car pulled by reindeer, one of whom has a red nose, and he lands on rooftops and goes down the chimney at night and gives presents to good kids, and we write letters to him and give him cookies and milk, but he's actually not real--but that's a secret, so don't tell your children.  Oh, and there are little people that help Santa, and he lives at the North Pole, which is near Canada."  

And yes, we have been focusing mostly on the secular side of Christmas.  Not because we don't like Jesus, but because it's confusing enough without the religious side of it . . . "Happy Birthday, Jesus!" is about as deep as we get into that aspect (and even that really only works with the Christian refugees anyway). 

So, I started thinking about my own relationship with the Santa Myth.  I, like many, was introduced to Santa at a young age.  There were certain things I never bought: I knew the Santa at the mall was not the real Santa (who was, of course, too busy making toys at the North Pole to go to malls--plus, it didn't make any sense that he could be at so many malls at the same time).  I knew it wasn't logical for Santa to be able to travel all around the world in one night, but I had to factor in the different time zones, plus a good bit of magic (and he could skip the houses of the bad kids, and the ones who didn't celebrate Christmas), so that didn't pose too much of a problem, either.  

One Christmas, we were vacationing in Florida, and I was very concerned that Santa wouldn't be able to find us.  My parents calmly reassured me that he'd know where to find me--he followed these things very closely.  I was similarly concerned that we didn't have a chimney, but I supposed that he could also come in through a window, or maybe the back door.  We put out the cookies and milk, and when we woke up, they were gone, our stockings were stuffed, and there were new presents under the tree.  I listened for the jingle bells, but never heard them.  I looked out the window as I drifted off to sleep, but I never saw the glow of a red nose.  

I realized the truth when I noticed that the wrapping paper, gift tags, and handwriting that Santa used were all the same as my mother's.  My suspicions might have been fueled by other kids at school, or perhaps my (mean) older brother, but in any case, I eventually put all the pieces together. I don't remember feelings of betrayal; I don't even think that I cried. In my memory, I let that part of my childhood drift away, silently, and without protest. 

I posed the question on Facebook to find out how some of my friends were brought into The Truth About Santa. There were some common themes: parental missteps, other kids at school, Some had parents who outright told them (or, in one case, a teacher).  Andy, for example, was told The Truth, and we recently found out that his mother has been carrying guilt around for 20 years.  She called to apologize a few weeks back, an hour after a conversation about Santa.  

Now, I'm not a parent myself, but I find the whole Santa Myth to be a point of ethical confusion.  Which is the greater crime, lying to your children, or robbing them of a childhood experience and rite of passage?  (I suppose the answer to that is obvious to anyone who never believed in Santa, and much less so to anyone who ever did.) And if you choose to indulge in the fantasy, at what point do you pull the plug? Is it more damaging to dash your child's hopes, or to wait until someone in their (middle?) school does? 

The truth of the matter is that Christmas is more fun when that hope of something magical exists.  And while The Santa Myth does not make any sense at all, I'm sure we'll be passing it to our children.  And as they grow older, I'm sure we'll be fighting to keep the hope alive in their little eyes . . . 

P.S. It will be harder and harder to conceal The Truth. Thanks again, Internet.   

Long Time, No Write

For the past three days, I've been suffering from incapacitating back pain.

I came to work on Tuesday, my first day back after the Thanksgiving holiday, and halfway up the stairs I felt a spasm in my back, paused, and continued up.  By the time I reached the top, I could barely stand, and I felt funny.

Stupidly, I continued back downstairs to my ECE room.  Again, I pretty much collapsed when I reached my destination.  By this point, the students were coming in.  I felt paralyzed, both by the situation and by my pain, and still fuzzy.  At one point, after having stood for a little while to give some incoming children hand sanitizer, I broke into a cold sweat ("Why are you so wet?," asked one girl. "Maybe because of the rain," she reasoned), and my co-worker said that my face looked funny, yellow.  I was lightheaded, a little nauseous, and in a horrible amount of pain.

I went to lie down in the back room, and some of the children followed me (thankfully, a few were equipped with play-stethoscopes, so I got immediate medical attention).  One of my favorite little boys (who always gets scared when I play "hurt" with some of the other children) was watching carefully, though I think most of the children were unaware of what was going on.  After a while, I was able to stand up, go back up stairs to collect my things, and make it back to the car, praying I'd make it home safely since it was painful to drive (especially to brake).

Yesterday, I had some numbness in my left foot, too, and a stretching pain down my leg.  I could barely sleep at all.

A tribute to my sweet, wonderful husband, though.  He is the best.

He stayed home from work to take care of me.  He helped me out of bed.  He helped me put my socks on.  He helped me get dressed, take a shower, eat my meals . . . AND he brought me chocolate.  And though I was writhing in pain, he never stopped telling me I was beautiful, giving me kisses, and massaging my back and feet when it didn't hurt too much to do so.  If I've ever wondered what love looks like, Andy has just shown me.

From our honeymoon. He is so handsome, too! 

I'm now on a pretty serious battery of pain killers, so I feel a lot better.  I can walk, get out of bed, and make it to the bathroom without passing out (a marked improvement)!

All in all, today I feel very grateful for the little things in life.  You never know how blessed you are to be able to walk, sit upright, and dress yourself until you have those things taken away from you, even temporarily.  My heart goes out to anyone who lives with physical pain as a constant in their life, or who doesn't have the ability to take care of him or herself.  It is hard, in so many ways.  I've only had the experience for two days, and they have probably been the worst two days of my life!

So, be grateful if you can move under your own power, free of pain.  It is a blessing.  A huge blessing. Trust me.

And be careful with your backs!  Again, trust me.