My daughter taught me something today. (No surprise there, she and B teach me at least one something every day.)
She taught me that Christmas isn’t about me.
Seems pretty blatantly obvious, doesn’t it?
But it wasn’t. Though admittedly, I didn’t realize how ridiculously selfish and self-centered I was being (though most don’t when they are being so).
When I think of all my Christmases, they are beautiful and magical. Until they’re not.
I never wanted my kids to have those “until they’re not” memories. Not that any of my Christmases were ever bad, not in the least bit. They just ceased to lose their magic after about the ago of twelve (other than this one beautiful Christmas I spent in Paris
Not on actual Santa Claus. But on the lies I was told as a kid. And Santa got the brunt of it.
I thought if I took Santa out of the equation and showed my children the real meaning of Christmas, then it would always be a beautiful, magical experience for them. I thought it would be better for them.
But I was wrong. Maybe it would have been better for me as a kid. Maybe not. I have no doubt my Christmases would have been the same, my memories the same, whether or not my parents had innocently played a sweet game of Santa with me.
I’ll never be able to tell H or B that Santa is real. Because that’s lying, and I’ve all ready said a million times I cannot and will not lie to my kids. Ever. Yes, I can tell that them that there was a real Santa, but not the guy in the red suit they know him as. I mean, I’ve already told them this. A million times.
But I’m not going to take Santa away from them either. (This is like a severe 180 from not too long ago, eh?).
Today we went to the mall to finish up our Christmas shopping. H got to shop for another little girl and she had a field day with that. She was so excited picking out gifts to “make a little girl so, so happy!” as she put it. I had a blast just watching her. If I’d let her, she’d have bought her all the toys in Target, all the books, and all the clothes at Macy’s. Not once did she ask for something for herself.
So something right is happening here.
I’d promised her we’d ride the train whenever we went to the mall with J. This was the first time we’d been with him since I’d agreed to that. So we bought the tickets and boarded the little holiday train that drives all throughout the mall.
We turned a corner and suddenly my little girl squealed, “Santa Claus!” Her hand popped out through the train car and began waving so quickly it looked like it would snap off at the wrist.
Santa didn’t miss a beat; he waved right back to her.
“Momma, he waved at me!” She cried; her face absolutely lit with euphoria. She was so excited and beside herself she could hardly contain herself. “Can we go see him, Momma? Can we? Can we?”
J looked at me; I’m pretty sure he was telepathically begging me to say no, but luckily I’m not a mind reader so I squashed that request and said, “Yes.”
After we climbed off the train and headed toward Santa J kept trying to tell her, “Now this isn’t really Santa. This is just a man dressed up pretending to be Santa.”
It didn’t matter. H was oblivious in her own little happy bubble where she had just seen Santa with her own eyes from her seat on the train.
We were fortunate; we were up at the ass-crack of dawn so there were absolutely no other kids there. H ran. Just as fast as she could. She didn’t even hesitate as she threw her arms around him in a hug and screamed, “Santa Claus, I just love you!”
I had seriously figured she would get close, but not that close and decide better of it all. No such thing.
B followed her, but he didn’t dare get as close as his big sister. Instead he pulled me by the hand and we stood a few feet in front of Santa while H made herself comfortable on his lap, telling Santa about her morning and her brother. When he finally was able to ask her what she’d like for Christmas she didn’t miss a beat, “Oh, I’d like some tigers!” (She told my mom this too…we don’t run a zoo, baby girl!)
“Oh, tigers?” Santa asked. “What about your brother? What would he like?”
“B just like ladybugs,” she told him, which made me chuckle. Though, admittedly, B has nothing against ladybugs.
She’d have stayed and talked to him forever. They talked about his reindeer and her dance class and hot chocolate. Finally a family showed up and so H had to be booted. They were dressed seasonally appropriate for Christmas photos. I was too cheap to pay the $30 for the picture I hadn’t been planning on anyway. Sue me.
She talked about Santa all. day. long.
Even before going to bed she asked if she could see him again. Begged is more like it. I told her we’d try.
But even with Santa, she was still my thoughtful, giving girl. When she and I went to get B a gift from her for Christmas after our visit with Santa, she went through painstaking efforts to pick out just what he’d like best. She decided he’d like a push toy that made noise when you pushed it. There were only eight. Seriously. She tried every single one out and analyzed it. Was it the right color? Was it big enough? Small enough? Would B want balls in it or maybe these little dangling butterflies? Etc., etc. It was all about her brother. And she was focused.
So I don’t know. I still don’t love Santa. I probably never will. But I also don’t love the commercialism of Christmas, and for me, Santa goes with that, for sure.
But there is something so incredibly beautiful, magical, about a little girl in love with Santa. So if she wants to be a believer, I will certainly support that decision. Because if nothing else, I believe in the “spirit” of Santa, as her Godmother put it, and that isn’t lying.
So I can’t make any promises about Tooth Fairies or Easter Bunnies at this point, but Santa. Yeah, Santa and I are going to have to be friends for a while.
Because he makes my sweet girl incredibly happy.
And as a Momma, that’s what Christmas is all about. Seeing my beautiful babes happy. They, after all, are my miracles. And Christmas is all about celebrating a certain newborn miracle who became our Savior. So I can get on board with that.
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