Someone made me smile

We decided, long before our children were ever born, to never lie to them.

This is a bit laughable as I look back on it now, as I probably tell tiny white lies every day: "I'm sorry baby, I can't play with you right now because Momma's working," I say as I click through Facebook to skim the news. Or, "Darn it, it looks like we're all out of cookies.... how about some cheesy broccoli instead?" [Note: I'm pretty sure Erin still abides by this rule, though I have no idea how.]

But as a couple, and for such a weighty construct as Christmas, how to handle Santa Claus has been a tricky and longstanding debate.

We aren't religious, so embracing the story of Jesus never felt right. And perpetuating the commercial hullaballoo of Santa Claus didn't appeal, either. Any fictional character or myth that requires a lot of elaborate storytelling or choreography to be convincing seems like a violation of trust, if not a complete departure from the basic tenants of physics, logic, and common sense. Our unusually perceptive son would be on to us before long anyway, so what was the point?

Yet, Santa Claus is an institution much larger than us. Who wants to be the assholes whose son ruins Christmas for everyone? So we compromised: we'd tell our son about "Santa," but it'd be Erin dressing up each year for a brief cameo. That way, Daddy being jolly old St. Nick would be true, while not confusing his more innocent classmates when Ash talks about the presents he got from him. Or at least, that was the idea.

Trouble was, we failed to work out the particulars. Last year it didn't matter: the kid was 7 months old and wouldn't have known Santa from a houseplant. I'd gotten a cheap costume for Erin online and it was no trouble to mildly bewilder our son when he was handed a ball by a strange man in a red suit. No biggie.

But this year, with a precocious 20-month old, the message really mattered. The sheer mechanics of this plan was worth discussing in detail, yet we completely neglected to do so until it was too late. Did we agree on leaving gifts out under the tree? Turns out, nope. Who was responsible for the goodies in the stockings, us, or Santa? Totally unclear. If Santa arrived at a time when Daddy was conveniently "in the bathroom," what's all this business about him coming down the chimney during the night? And who the heck are all those imposters at the Mall? There were answers for none of it.

We got so many things wrong that morning, including who, what, when, where, and why Santa is....yet when Kris Kringle arrived festooned with an obvious fake beard, no belly, and suspiciously similar glasses to Daddy's, (not to mention a"Ho, ho, ho" that bellowed in a familiar baritone), we still managed to completely dupe our son. When Ash looked nervous, we went as far as to tell him it was "just Daddy in a costume" but it did no good: as soon as Erin reappeared in Daddy clothes, Ash ran off to figure out where the heck Santa went. And has been talking nonstop about him and the globe he left for days now. All in all, the ruse was a roaring success. Once again, I found this to be the most amusing possible thing, and delighted in capturing it best I could. This is one tradition that promises to make me smile for decades to come.

Thankfully, we have a few more years to get our story straight. :-)

Sparkle

On our Christmas tree each year since I was my own son's age there has been a tiny, nondescript ornament nestled in amongst all the blinkies and sparkles. What it lacks in pizazz, it makes up for in sentiment: it's by far my most most adored, cherished ornament, the one I pile all my nostalgia onto (trumping the handmade ornaments my parents made before they were married, the snowblob with my son's handprint, and the Walnut I colored with markers and put on a string on in Kindergarten) because it includes a most basic and treasured ritual: reading aloud on Christmas eve, from the tiniest of books, the Night Before Christmas.

But as we decorated the tree this year, for the very first time in my entire life, I realized that I can no longer even squint through glasses to see the tiny print. My son not yet old enough to read, this seemingly timeless tradition may have to end, or be severely compromised by allowing someone else besides me or my blood to execute it. Or relying on the likes of Google in an unfair assist.

So, I comforted myself by falling back on my second most favorite tradition: eating the year-old piece of candy I hide in my Reindeer squeezy-mouth ornament each season as we're packing away our Christmas decorations. Oh, and catching hell for it from my husband who thinks the shelf life of chocolate is like, an important detail or something.

This year on on its eve we'll read the Night Before Christmas even if I have to pull the words out from deep in my memory bank to do it. All the while, I'll try to remember that even the strongest of traditions die out with time. But like old bulbs on an ancient string of lights, they can be replaced with new ones that'll sparkle and burn bright for years to come.