In the months before Borealis was born, I threw down a Christmas ultimatum.
“Oh, in case you were wondering, we are not doing Santa.”
Since Taylor (like me) was raised with traditionally American Decembers, he was surprised by my vitriolic pronouncement.
Taylor: <grunts in surprise> “But why?”
“Because I plan to never lie to my kids. There’s a difference between omitting the truth and fabricating something out of whole cloth — and I refuse to do the latter.”
Taylor: <grunts in continued surprise> “But Santa is magical!”
“So are unicorns and leprechauns. You want to tell our kids to believe in those, too?”
“Well, isn’t Santa part of having an imaginative childhood?”
I shrugged. “I am firmly convinced that we can still inspire their imaginations with things that are true. Like, plenty of elements of the actual Christmas story are already fantastical!”
Taylor: <grunts incredulously>
“How about the singing angels?” I prompted. “Or the traveling wise men? Or the fact that God became a human!?”
Taylor: <grunts in grudging assent> “But what will everyone else say?”
“I don’t really care, honestly. This is ultimately about our children’s theological development.”
Taylor: <grunts in confusion>
I rolled my eyes. “Think about how normal Santa conversations go. ‘Oh, there’s a person who can see you when you’re sleeping, and knows when you’re awake, and knows when you’ve been bad or good… so you better be good, tee hee!’”
Taylor: <grunts in acknowledgment>
“Well,” I continued, “it’s pretty heretical to ascribe omniscience to anyone but God… wouldn’t you agree!?”
Now it was Taylor’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yes, obviously.” <pause> “And, along those lines… I have always wondered if lying to our kids about Santa will eventually undermine their belief in God.”
I nodded. “Like, ‘Oh, Santa was this powerful being who ended up being fake… so now I wonder if the same thing is true about God.’ — right?”
“Exactly.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Excellent. It appears that we’re in violent agreement here.”
Taylor: <grunts pensively>
“Plus,” I added, “I don’t want anyone else receiving credit for the presents that *we* buy for our kids.”
Thus, for the past six years, we have scrupulously taught our children that Santa is like Link and Mario — which is to say, he’s “just pretend”.
Admittedly, this decision has not been without its challenges. We’ve faced pushback from various friends and family over the years — although that resistance has always folded quickly against the ironcladness of my decision. They can hardly argue that I’m parenting badly by forgoing the daily torment of Elf on a Shelf and instead choosing the uplifting joy of Advent Blocks.
Another challenge is my constant concern that our children will divulge the truth of Santa to all of their school friends — although, thankfully, they have not [yet]. This is likely because we rigorously inform our kids that, yes, other parents *do* lie to their kids — but no, it is not *our* place to correct those [exclusively Santa-related] misconceptions. And also, you know, we should never lie to our friends about anything else — besides the things that their parents are *already* lying to them about.
Or. Something.
Thus, the whole ordeal feels unnecessarily complicated, and it mostly just leaves me annoyed that I inadvertently shifted the lying onus from me to my kids — or, more broadly, that anyone in our family has to lie, at all.
Unfortunately, though, we are not yet at the societal inflection point beyond which Santa will become a relic of the past — so alas, my family and I are still the weird ones in the midst of a Saint-Nicholas-infused world.
Which, admittedly, does still lend itself to some pretty magical family moments.
Though we skip the Santa charade principally for ideological reasons, our choice has some delightfully practical silver linings. One of these benefits is that we don’t have to pretend that our kids’ presents get made and wrapped at the North Pole.
Accordingly, Bo and Aza typically select their gifts in-person — at Goodwill or Hobby Lobby or wherever — and then, if I agree, I immediately purchase said gifts, rather than pretending that Santa will eventually do so… and then having to devise a sneaky method by which to make it happen.
Afterward, those purchases typically “hide” on an upper shelf in our basement — where they are, not infrequently, still spied out by the kids. (That shelf is pretty full. It’s hard to place everything completely out-of-sight.)
But, what our gifts lack in discretion, they amply provide in the cultivation of patience. I smirk proudly whenever one of my kids counsels another, “Don’t worry — you’ll still get that present, but not till Christmas!”
Even so, if I have the chance, I try to wrap our gifts in private — because, you know, five-year-olds don’t always remember what they picked out months beforehand. (And, let’s be real, neither do twenty-eight-year-olds. I simply have a lot fewer gifts to remember, sigh.)
This year, I got just such a gift-wrapping opportunity on December 22nd, when a mentor of mine came over to play with my children. I powered through a large chunk of our presents that morning, then continued the wrapping endeavor after bedtime that night.
Somewhat unexpectedly, we had ended up with an alarmingly imbalanced distribution of presents — tipped heavily in favor of Borealis. Since his birthday is less than two months away, I unilaterally decided to reclassify an armful of Christmas gifts as birthday gifts, instead.
Thus, by the morning of Christmas Eve Eve, I had sorted and wrapped the majority of our family presents. The finished gifts sat in neat rows on Taylor’s desk, ready for delivery.
… which sets the stage for the rest of this story.
December 23rd was Taylor’s first day of Christmas Break, but neither of us was in a good mood. I wanted to finish wrapping the few remaining presents; he wanted to ease into the holidays and mentally detach from work.
Unfortunately, both of these goals required calm, compliant children — which, for the moment, we didn’t have. Our kids were loudly working on some project in the dining room — and, after some marital bickering, I finally went to identify said project.
To my surprise, I discovered that my children were… cosplaying Santa.
“Uh, you do know that Santa’s not real, right?” I prompted Borealis.
[Note: This question may seem unnecessarily redundant, but it’s actually worth asking — because, despite repeated discussions on the matter, Bo and Aza don’t always get the answer right. I blame the pervasiveness of “Santa culture” at each of their schools.]
My son merely waved away my question and mumbled, “He’s just pretend — I know. But I’m making a Santa beard to go with my Santa hat.”
“And I’m making Rudolph antlers!” Australis added.
“I’m hun-gee,” Rhys threw in for good measure.
I rolled my eyes. “Ok, first things first — Rhysi, do you want a protein bar?”
“Ya!”
“Ok, great.”
After plopping my toddler into his highchair with one of Taylor’s homemade protein bars, I turned back to my older kids. Aza was busy drawing antlers onto her sheet of plain white paper, while Bo hovered a pencil over his.
“Ugh!” he exploded. “I don’t know how to draw a beard, and it’s making me furious!”
I involuntarily snorted, then soothed, “Borealis — there’s no need to be furious. I’ll help you draw it, and then you can cut it. We’ll work together.” Then, turning to my daughter, I noted, “And we’ll have to do that on something thicker, sweetie. That paper is too floppy to stand up.”
An hour later — and with more than a little snippiness on my part — the “costumes” were ready.
I felt a bit weird about my kids dressing as Santa and Rudolph — like it was borderline elicit. (And, I suspect, that implication was part of the costumes’ allure.) I just wanted my children to change back into their Zelda and Link garbs; that, undoubtedly, would restore our normal family ethos.
But, before I could suggest my idea, Taylor poked his head into the living room. “Hey, Santa — bring Rudolph and your elf! It’s time for you to deliver the presents!”
“Wait, what?” I stammered. “They aren’t even all wrapped!” [Note: For some inexplicable reason, random items kept turning up in our disorganized basement or arriving on our doorstep in Amazon-branded packages — and, unfortunately, those late arrivals nevertheless required wrapping.]
Taylor shrugged. “We’ll only take the finished ones.”
“But there’s still two days until Christmas!”
Taylor cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, so you want them to stay at the ‘North Desk’ until tomorrow night?”
“Um, yes, that was the thought,” I answered — but it was already too late.
My children — who had shrieked with glee at Taylor’s pronouncement — now moved toward my bedroom, intent on their mission. Borealis had snagged his scooter — now repurposed as his “sleigh” — while Aza crawled on all fours. I sighed, then located our play-pretend shopping cart for Rhys. (After all, “Santa’s sleigh” had very little cargo space.)
“Come on, Rhysi,” I called as I trudged after the big kids.
Their game commenced before I even reached my room — but that was no issue, because Borealis was in full-on Santa impersonation mode.
“HAS EVERYONE IN THE UNITED STATES BEEN GOOD THIS YEAR?” he bellowed gruffly at Taylor.
Taylor, affecting a folksy Minnesotan accent, answered, “Well, they’ve been pretty good… but not everyone on the political spectrum.”
“Taylor!” I reprimanded, laughing.
Once again, though, I needn’t have worried. Borealis just plowed on with his half of the conversation. “Well, pretend they’ve been mostly good.”
“Uh… sure. Mostly good,” Taylor agreed.
“WE GOTTA GET THE PRESENTS READY!” Borealis bellowed in response. He immediately began loading wrapped gifts into the tiny basket on his scooter’s handlebars.
“Aza, are you going to help?” I asked.
“No, I’m a Rudolph who only uses four feet,” she explained.
… and there wasn’t really anything I could say to that.
Meanwhile, Borealis had already finished placing two whole presents into his “sleigh” — which could barely hold even that much.
“OK, RUDOLPH!” he bellowed at Aza. “PULL MY SLEIGH TO GO DELIVER THESE PRESENTS!”
I stifled a laughed as Aza slithered off my bed and attempted to pull Bo’s scooter while still on hands and knees. (Well, on hand and knees. One hand remained on the scooter — except when it was fixing her antler headband, which was prone to falling off.)
“Wait, you’re going to make Rudolph pull you!?” I asked incredulously. “Aren’t you going to help?”
“NO! IT’S *HER* RESPONSIBILITY TO PULL SANTA’S SLEIGH!”
Taylor: <grunts with laughter>
“Uhhhhhh, ok,” I muttered. “Alright, Rhysi, let’s get you some presents, too.”
I raced down the hall just in time to snap the above picture, then instruct, “Ok, Rhysi, put the presents here, under the tree!”
He gave me a confused look.
“We’re not opening them right now,” I explained. “Christmas is in two days.”
The confused look intensified — as if to ask, Then why are we doing this right *now*?
I sighed. “I don’t know — your father thought it was a good idea.”
“Daddy,” Rhys mumbled — and that seemed to be all the explanation he needed. He dutifully began removing the gifts from his basket, just as an exhausted Aza pulled a still-bellowing Borealis to a halt.
“I HAVE PRESENTS FOR EVERYONE! HERE’S ONE FOR AUSTRALIS, AND HERE’S ONE FOR—” His voice returned to normal as he realized, “Oh, this one’s for me! I wonder what it is!”
“Uh, please don’t shake the box,” I reprimanded. “What if that were breakable?”
[Note: The gift — a build-your-own robotic octopus — *wasn’t* actually breakable… or, at least, it wasn’t breakable in its current state. Ironically, however, I can say from experience that the toy became breakable once constructed.]
“Mama!” Aza yelled. “Rhysi is opening one of the presents!”
I rolled my eyes and stage-yelled, “That’s because your father thought it was a good idea to get the presents out a day early!”
Taylor: <laughs from down the hall>
I rolled my eyes again and scolded my toddler, “Rhysi, it’s not time to open the presents yet.”
“No,” he retorted.
“No presents?” I clarified.
“More peh-zens,” he answered.
“No more presents,” I concluded. “Come on, let’s go get… uh… well, more presents, actually.”
Rhys gave me a hopeful look and immediately crouched to retrieve one of the wrapped gifts that he had so recently unloaded.
“No, not those presents. The ones in Mommy and Daddy’s room.”
Rhys narrowed his already squinty eyes, and I could almost hear his thoughts. But will she *actually* notice if I unwrap this one…?
“No, Rhysi,” I admonished. “Put that back under the tree. No, not in the cart — put it under the tree.”
Even after all that, the present ended up in the tree… but I figured it was close enough.
Fifteen minutes later — after much childhood drama, including Rudolph’s acquiring a sleigh of her own — and all the presents were under the tree. (Well, sort of.) Taylor joined me in the living room, and he congratulated the kids on a job well done. (Well, sort of.)
“CAN WE OPEN A PRESENT NOW!?” Bo bellowed — in his own voice again, but [apparently] still uncontrollably excited.
“No,” Taylor answered flatly.
“But please!” Aza appealed.
He shook his head. “In this family, we only open one present early — and that’s on Christmas Eve, which is tomorrow, not today.”
I rolled my eyes. “T, you can’t make them move all these presents and then not give them a reward.”
Taylor: <grunts noncommittally>
“New rule!” I announced. “After all the kids help move the presents out to tree, then you can open one shared gift.” I handed Aza a present labeled All the Kids. “Here, open this.”
She pulled off the wrapping paper — with some aggressive, unnecessary help from Borealis — and was delighted to discover a plush moose: a replica of “Moosey”, Bo’s classroom stuffed animal from pre-K.
“Moosey!” they exclaimed in unison.
“Moo-see,” Rhys belatedly chimed in.
After watching this adorable display, I sidled up to Taylor with a smirk. “And you thought that that would be a lame gift,” I quipped.
He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I was wrong, apparently.”
“Yeah, apparently.” I sniffed pretentiously, then added, “It’s a good thing I know our kids so well.”
“Better than Santa does?”
“Definitely better than Santa does.”
At that moment, Aza came running up to us. “Mommy, Rhysi is opening another present!”
I grimaced and turned to Taylor. “Oh — and Santa definitely has you beat when it comes to timing. Next year, maybe we can do this, like, closer to Christmas morning?”
My husband shrugged. “It’s good for their self-control.” He stooped and retrieved Rhys’s now-unwrapped gift, then handed it to me. “And, in the meantime… shouldn’t you be bringing this defective present back to the North Desk?”
Holly: <grunts in defeat>
