No Makena, There Really isn’t a Santa Claus

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

***Spoiler Alert: The existence of the Jolly Old Elf, St. Nick, is disputed in this piece.

One of my strongest memories of middle-school took place around Christmas when I was in sixth or seventh grade. My class of about sixty students was split into two each year. Because our class was so small, after seven years of being together, I felt like I knew these kids better than my own extended family. In fact, I thought of them as my family.

On the day in question our teacher stood in front of our class and stated, “I expect that all of you realize now that Santa Claus doesn’t exist.” This unexpected Santa spoiler was followed by an audible gasp and sob. Clearly one student hadn’t known. This teacher just rocked a little girl’s world by stripping her of the magic of Christmas.

Of course, it being middle-school and the fact that middle schoolers can be insensitive a**holes, and that we all knew each other really well, the class laughed at and mocked the girl who dared to still believe in the beloved mythical figure that is Santa. I like to think that I stifled my laughter trying to spare her of embarrassment, but let’s face it, I was a middle school a**hole too, so I probably laughed.

At some point, I did feel bad for her. She was an innocent girl who loved to read and sing as she rode her bike around town. She had few friends if any. She was always picked last for teams during gym class. She stood-out and was considered to be weird. She and I had been friends early-on but drifted apart as her oddities became more evident and hanging out with her caused a stigma. I was having a hard enough time fitting-in, I couldn’t spare popularity points by associating myself with her. I told you I was a middle school a**hole.

My empathetic feelings about her broken-heart and presumed embarrassment resurfaced when I became a mother. I, like so many, indulged my kids with the fantasy of Santa. It is a fun tradition that makes Christmas magical. One of the best reasons to become a parent is to be Santa, right?

I believed this until I actually had to become Santa. Being Santa is exhausting. All of the subterfuge and lying is not as fun as one might think. It really is a yearlong job as you have to be keenly aware of things other adults say, lines in movies, and the constant questions that children have as they grapple with the ridiculousness that is the story of Santa.

The lies become complex making the story a convoluted journey that adults often lose track of only to be corrected by a three-year-old who remembers every single blessed detail. Back peddling and restating “facts” becomes the norm. Convincing your innocent child that she misheard or misremembered makes you feel a bit dirty and cruel as you try to keep the lie alive all in the name of the spirit of Christmas.

On top of explaining around every bend why a man or woman doffed in a Santa suit is “just a helper” and “of course there is only one true Santa,” we have now laden ourselves with the blasted Elf-on-the-Shelf. 

Who thought of this torture? Not only do we have to stay up until all hours of the night on December 24^th assembling 10,000 pieces into a play kitchen praying that the kids don’t hear the hammering and drilling (but also secretly hoping they discover you so you never have to do this again) now we have to remember to move a pesky elf every night to some new spot in the house.

We tell our kids this magical elf flies back to the North Pole nightly to report to the chief elf about whether they have been naughty or nice. The elf returns before dawn landing in a new spot in the house. 

If the elf just happens to be in the same spot in the morning, the sleepy-eyed children want to know, “Why is Pinto still there? That’s where he was yesterday.” Being an overtired and guilt filled mother, I attack with the comeback, “You must have been naughty so Pinto didn’t want to tell Santa. You better be good today.” Ugh, what a**hole move (middle school did prepare me for something), but it’s all in the name of keeping the magic alive. Right?

The elf saga has been made more complicated by creative but annoying folks who inundate Pinterest, Facebook, and Instagram with their ingenious ideas of how the scamp of an Elf-on-the-Shelf gets into trouble during the night. The elf might poop M&M’s into the toilet, cover the bathroom in shaving cream, or undecorate the Christmas tree.

These are indisputably cute little escapades for the elf. However, are you CRAZY!! Who has time to set-up these crime scenes? I barely have the energy to just move the elf from one spot to the other, now I have to think up and then execute shenanigans on a nightly basis.

Moreover, who on God’s once-green earth do you think is going to clean up that mess? 

Seriously, this craziness must stop! Parents today are increasingly older. All of the twenty-something parents think it’s fun to challenge the aging mind and body of the older parent. It’s just cruel. Stop it!

Time to get back to my original point…

To avoid an incident similar to the one that scarred me (and probably that schoolmate) in middle-school, I decided that I would reveal the truth about Santa to my girls before they got to the age where they might be outed by a misguided teacher, and then mocked by their a**hole peers. 

I revealed the greatest Christmas scam to my first girl around fifth grade. She took it amazingly well. She claims she already knew. Though she insists otherwise, I still can’t help but think I broke her heart just a little.

My second daughter, I told around the same time. She could have probably withstood another year, but let’s face it, I was tired of the lies and subterfuge. I couldn’t handle another year pretending to be a jolly old elf. Plus, that damn elf, Pinto, kept forgetting to fly back to the North Pole. It was really hard to tell my daughter day after day that she was naughty when, in truth, I fell asleep before her, so Pinto stayed put.

We broke the news to her after that Christmas. She sat and listened to my explanation. I went on to tell her about the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny. She sat still and stared into space trying to make sense of all I told her. I asked her if she had any questions and she shook her head but didn’t move. 

After a few moments passed, she looked at me and confidently said, “I think this year I am going to keep a list of the things I want so I won’t forget what to ask Santa for next year.” With that, she got up and walked away.

My daughter’s steadfast refusal to not believe continues two years later. She still leaves her teeth for the Tooth Fairy and awaits the Easter Bunny in the spring. We keep reminding her that they are mythical figures who don’t exist. She just smiles and looks at us with pity and knowing. Perhaps there really is a Santa Claus. I better get my list in the mail quick, there are only a few days left.

Merry Christmas