Christmas is a time of traditions.
It’s the only time of year that singing on strangers’ front lawns is acceptable. It’s the only time of year where we drink raw eggs, provided they’re heavily spiced and mixed with rum. And it’s the only time of year that you’ll let your child sit on a complete stranger’s lap. Provided that stranger’s lap is covered in red felt.
That stranger is of course Santa Claus. At least, that’s who it should be.
My daughter has met Santa Claus before. Last year, when she was barely four-months-old, we were at the office holiday kids’ party. Her name was called and we went up to see the Fat Man. It was a big moment. I was nervous. Santa was, well, he seemed sweaty. Probably the polyester costume.
That meeting went off without a hitch. My daughter sat on Santa’s lap. She was so cute, everyone was ooh-ing and aah-ing. She looked like a tiny little elf as she sat there so content. But that was a year ago.
Recently we had our second encounter with Santa and his bowlful of jelly belly. The setting was the same – office party for kids. But the outcome was quite different.
Something happened in those twelve months. Santa changed in my daughter’s eyes. He went from Ho Ho Ho to horrifying.
She sat on his lap and cried. Actually, she never even made it to the lap. She cried when we approached Jolly Old St. Nick (or at least the stranger pretending to be him). Maybe that was it, maybe she recognized that this wasn’t the real Santa Claus but rather some poor overweight and underpaid gentleman.
He was just a stranger in a beard.
So maybe it was the fake beard. Maybe my daughter hates theatrical facial hair. There goes a disappointing career in the underfunded world of live theatre. If it’s the hair, it’s definitely not the gray hair. She’s used to being held by an old guy with gray hair. We call him Grandpa.
She likes Grandpa. She hates Santa.
Maybe she was so upset because she thought we were sending her to the North Pole to work at Santa’s Workshop. Her tiny little fingers would be perfect for the detail work kids expect from toys these days.
I suspect the real reason she was crying on Santa is her age. She’s too young to understand that Santa means presents. For her Santa means people staring and camera flashes. If you were unaware of the tradition, you’d probably cry if someone forced you to sit on a fat stranger’s lap in front of your family. It’s a very strange tradition. When she’s older and she can actually tell Santa what she wants for Christmas, I’m sure she’ll love it.
Until then all she’s getting for Christmas is “waaah.”
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