Our Santa, Who Art in Nebraska

Come Christmas morn, someone’s going to have a lot of explaining to do. My two oldest children’s letters to Santa read like a laundry list of all the things they’re not, ever, going to get as gifts.

Jordan, my nearly 8 year-old first-born is perched on that tenuous ridge made by the convergence of the slippery slopes of imagination and, well, the dawning understanding of real life. Her enthusiasm at the existence of Santa and the possibilities Christmas holds is ruthless as she gets older and reality knocks ever more insistently on the door to childhood. Her list reads like an inventory of Dr. Doolittle’s household: a horse, a chocolate lab, another kitty (that won’t take a joy ride in mama’s mini-van engine compartment and bail out somewhere in the wilds of our county), a snake, a mouse (not in the same cage, I presume), a hamster, a guinea pig, an egg about to hatch into a fluffy, cuddly duckling or chick, and the fencing, houses, warming lights and so on to go with them all. In case live animals can’t be wrestled into Santa’s bulging bag of toys, she’s also included the four most expensive items from the American Girl catalog, a tome on par with the damage potential of the Tiffany’s catalog.

Sawyer’s list is even more difficult to fulfill. He starts it off with these three little doodads: “I want us all not to die. And not get sick. I don’t want any bad dreams.” Santa’s pretty much already Mr. Grinch as he draws his empty hands out of the ol’ satin sack on those requests. Writing Sawyer’s Santa letter with him I was able to fulfill a few of his wishes, finding odd toys and swim medals he thought he’d lost but I’d put in their appropriate place. “I’d like Santa to find that stuffed snake Autumn gave me last Christmas,” he dictated, followed soon after by the exclamation, “So that’s where that’s been!” as I pull it out of, where else, a basket full of stuffed toys. Because he still has big-sister worship he also wants American Girl dolls, but boys, which only come in twin sets to the tune of semester of college if you get the beds he wants with them as well. Clearly, I need to have a chat with my children about Santa’s budget in a recession.


Clavey's desires are clear, oft voiced, simple and easy to fulfill. They are, in this order, "Book. Ball. Cat." Check.

Sawyer’s certainty in Santa’s ability to deliver us from evil is indicative of the stage he is in. I remember well when Jordan was in it – there’s a lot of talk about death, and about who made things like air, water, and the earth. There’s this rising awareness of the world around them and this need to understand it, to find our place in it from early on. Time is slowly becoming less vague through heart-stopping questions like “Will I be alive next Christmas?” followed by the revealing, “How old will I be then?”

We’ve not raised our children with organized religion. We haven’t hidden religion from them, or disparaged anyone’s beliefs, and we welcome the study of all religions at school and in talking with friends and reading the amazing diversity of library books. We have explained the origin of the earth from the scientific perspective, which I find infinitely more miraculous than the seven days it took Him in the Bible, and we answer the questions of where flowers and birds and snakes came from with a watery explanation of Darwinism. It’s challenging as a parent to shift from reminding someone to wash their hands after using the potty straight into answering questions on where we go when we die.

I was raised Catholic for the first twelve or thirteen years of my life as it was the religion my mother was raised and has since questioned, adapted and reformed her views of. While I am grateful for the lessons in morality it gave me, I found virtually no solace in its notions of heaven and hell and felt there were far too many inconsistencies and contradictions in it for me to be able to simply BELIEVE. I don’t consider myself in any way atheist, science and nature being so miraculous as to inspire faith in there being a web that connects us to the smallest organisms of our world. But I am seeing now that religion gave an answer, albeit temporary, to these questions my son is peppering me with. The simplicity of understanding the world through religion allows for a believable explanation to an imaginative five year-old’s question about who made air.

I think it’s that need for understanding that guides my son to believe in the omnipotence of Santa. The man in red is, according to Sawyer, the only person who won’t die, won’t get sick, and can grant us absolution from our failings. When we guide Sawyer to a cursory understanding of the big bang theory, however, it’s my hope that we instill in him not only the beginnings of awe at the miracle of nature and web of life, but also the beginning seeds of empowerment, of knowing that he is ultimately responsible for making sense of and finding purpose in his own life.

Christmas is celebrated in our house not as a religious holiday but as a time to celebrate family and friends. It is at its roots a religious occasion, and we've explained the story of Christ's birth and the origin of the holiday, and we sing the carols. Hence, my daughter knows who Jesus is. She and I were in Seattle following the birth of my nephew 20 months ago when on a walk we came upon a fountain featuring a statue of a man and a boy. "I think I know who that is," she said. "God and Jesus."

On a bus bringing a jolly post-wedding party back to my sister's house we passed the same statue. My sister pointed it out saying "Look, Jordan, there's the Jesus and God fountain." Clearly Sawyer had been listening, and in some mysterious way processing. We hit a bump a few minutes later and Sawyer explained emphatically, "That was Jesus."

Over the last few years, my husband and I have had a few phone conversations with Santa in front of the children, answering his purported questions regarding our offsprings’ questionable behavior. This year, the kids bugged and pressed me for Santa’s number after our first threat of “you’d better watch out”. I first claimed I didn’t know it, then that I wasn’t allowed to divulge it to children, and finally, I simply Googled it. I discovered that Santa charges a mere $17.95 for the first four minutes of a phone conversation with your child and will pen a reply to their Dear Santa letters for an equally astounding sum. Googling again the area code given for setting up these appointments with His Jollyness, I discovered that one of the miracles of Santa is that he, while living at the North Pole, receives his calls just outside Omaha. Miracles abound.

Jordan was at Tae Kwon Do class tonight and I headed to the hospice thrift store next door where I killed time with a 14 month old who has no respect for the dojo and a five year-old needing distraction. Christmas is easy at the thrift store. I found Jordan a 54 cent angel for the top of the tree to replace a shattered one she’d been mourning. Clavey found two balls at a dollar apiece and was immediately in heaven. Sawyer hit the motherlode, finding a stuffed Diego doll only slightly smaller than himself that he was immediately enamored with. As it looks like Christmas from Santa might be a little disappointing this year, I ponied up the $4. He’s going to need a shoulder to cry on. It's not looking good for cookies next year, big guy.
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