Santa

Belief in Santa seems to follow many of the rules of religion: there are basic tenants common to many variations on a central theme, it's an idea most commonly perpetuated between generations, there's some very hot debate over it, and there always comes a time when you really have to question its basic existence. 

Oh, come on!  Like you havn't questioned religion's basic existence.  Yes, you, the one who's been a good, faithful Christian your whole life.  No one's fooled. 

I don't remember how old I was when I stopped believing in Santa.  It wasn't cool to believe in baby things when I got to be an older-kid (called The Age of Not Believing in Bedknobs and Broomsticks) but a little piece of innocence sobbed and withered when that childhood magic was abjured. 

Man and I decided long ago to "not do" Santa with the kids.  Some people nod politely, others are shocked.  One little girl in Princess' class was completely floored upon learning that Princess doesn't believe in ol' Saint Nick, declaring "but Santa is as real as God!"  Man and I chuckled and felt good about our decision from nine years ago.

Tonight we had a chance to do a little shopping at our local PX.  I felt an old ache when I saw Santa loitering near a counter set up for Christmas photos.  This Santa was richly dressed in brocade and heavy velvet, and his long white beard was very real.  It appeared slightly yellow next to the pure white of his fur trim.  His coat was the longer sort, an apparent crossover between the old Saint and our own jolly Elf.  His eyes were blue and twinkly and his voice, though not deep, revealed inexpressibly endearing kindness.  My son loudly proclaimed that "Santa's not real!" right to the man's face and Santa merely smiled patiently. 

Later, as I wandered aisles with my two littlest girls, he came to play with the toys in a slow, deliberate manner as if taking both enjoyment and mental notes, and struck up a conversation with Pebbles.  He was generous in speaking with her, always inquiring about her interests and actively listening to whatever she wanted to share.  He enjoyed some interaction with Freida and remarked on her strong grasp of colors and counting, his eyes lingering over her smile and the fascination she had for one particular toy. 

I walked away from that encounter with one thought ringing through my head: if I had met that particular Santa at any time during my childhood, I would have believed for much longer.  I might still believe.  I wanted at that moment to buoy my children with innocent wonder and a rich understanding of the ancient myths of stockings and reindeer and an improbable but imminently possible race against time and science. 

I thought about his interest in my girls and the soothing kindness of his voice.  He didn't "HO!HO!HO!" with gusto, but merely chuckled quietly.  Nowadays, some parents might keep their kids as far as possible from a man who would randomly converse with a child in the toy aisle, no matter how he was dressed.  Santas only belong on ornate chairs in front of cameras or in front of stores swinging bells for charity and some Santas don't even have kids sit in their laps anymore.  Litigation and bitter fear have broken whatever lingering sweetness we might have felt about our childhood dreams. 

This Santa might have creeped out those who read too much into him, and those caught up in the traditions for tradition's sake would merely have seen him as a prop for the Christmas card this year and future memories already planned out in soccer mom style. 

I made my purchases and bundled my shivering babes into the van and longed once again for that old magic.  There was a thrill at seeing a full stocking Christmas morning; a thrill at seeing a plate, intended for cookies, sporting merely crumbs after a night of fitful sleep; and a thrill at wondering what miracles Santa might bring to pass on my behalf to make at least one day out of the year completely special and safe.  Perhaps such times as these make us long for simple miracles.  Perhaps we perpetuate that magic to feel like rockstars when we know that Santa's miracles are our own doing. 

All I know is that, tonight, the whiskers were real, the clothes looked incredibly gorgeous, the voice was like a hug, and I felt an odd sort of honor that he would take a special interest in my own children.  And there's nothing wrong with any of that.