TAKEN FOR A RIDE TO BUY INTO SANTA
It’s about time we rein in the myths about Father Christmas because it’s getting harder to keep the truth of his existence under wraps
SPOILER alert.
The following is for adults only. Children must check with a parent or legal guardian before reading below.
You have been warned. Remember, Santa’s watching!
OK … did we lose them? My fellow adults and parents … we need to talk about Santa. Because God knows I’m not allowed to at home.
The truth is that the jolly old dude has become the other man in my marriage … and he’s tearing our family apart.
I’m so tired of the sneaking around, the furtive messaging, the secret assignations and straight out lying. How long is too long?
I’m ready to break my vow of faithfulness to St Nick … but my husband won’t let me. Sicko.
Instead, like some gross S&M fantasy (that’s Santa and Mum, btw), he’s forcing me to continue this false love.
Think of the children, he says. Do it for them.
My children are eight and 10. They are exactly who I am thinking of when they turn to me with big, trusting eyes and ask me about the reality of my relationship with the man with the big sack.
And it’s them I believe I’m betraying as I promise that mummy and daddy’s little threesome continues on, unabated.
Ironically, my children and I have already had the other “S” talk. So they know all about the birds and the bees, just not about Santa and the chimneys.
Mind you, the sex talk was pretty illuminating. Turns out they had no idea where the, uh, chimney was located … nor how to get it smoking.
Sorry, I’m officially on the naughty list now.
Back to Christmas. Look, I absolutely love Santa Claus this season but it is stressful enough without lying your way through it.
Our house is like an episode of Fawlty Towers right now. Don’t mention the truth!
The other night I was busted “cuddling” our Elf on the Shelf, Buddy. I thought the kids were asleep and was moving him “to visit the cat” (a strange euphemism if ever there was one), when my daughter staggered out, sleepy-eyed, on her way to the bathroom.
I was caught in flagrante delicto. My blood ran cold as I threw Buddy under the table like yesterday’s trash.
It was like the time Mum found my birth control pills hidden in my car’s glove box.
And just like Mum, my daughter was ready and willing to buy my story. This time, instead of a line about irregular monthlies, it was that Buddy and I were visiting puss puss. I still feel dirty.
Yet to continue the Christmas dream, this is what we parents must do.
Ultimately, it’s selflessness that fuels this passion. After all, we’re handing well over half the gift glory to Captain Claus.
Although given my complete ineptitude at stashing pressies, I’m stealing back some of the limelight.
As I write this, my son just stumbled across a text message I sent to my husband reminding him to remove a bulky gift from my back seat. (No euphemisms there, I
swear.) I told him the gift item that he read was a codeword for something else but, come Monday, the jig will be up.
To be honest, the whole jolly jig is just about up. There’s not too many more times I can look a trusting child in the eye and straightout lie. Isn’t that meant to be what they do to me? Yet how will I ever lecture them on the importance of telling me the truth when soon they will know their parents are (well meaning) liars?
However, my husband has convinced me that we must continue this charade for just a few more days. We are so close, he says. What’s a few more white Christmas lies?
Next year, apparently, is when the truth will out. Oh, the freedom! The ability to wrap ahead of time, to assemble in daylight. To simply say: Get out, I’m online shopping for you.
But it’s a farewell, too. It will be a loss of magic – or rather, the belief in magic. It will be the end of an era. The era of innocent childhood.
Uh oh, I think I’m falling in love all over again.