A Christmas spoiler alert
Why I’m no seasoned professional when it comes to playing Santa’s little helper.
Warning, this column includes material unsuitable for young children. When my daughter turned two, I had a good long think about what kind of parent I wanted to be. It felt like a moment for reflection, and a mental high-five. So far so good – but there were (hopefully) so many years ahead, getting it right all the time seemed an Herculean task.
Maybe pick one thing to be really good at, I thought, and stick to it. So I decided I’d always tell my children the truth, especially if they asked a direct question. They may not like the answer straight away, but I’m playing the long game here. When they’re 20, they’ll look back and think ‘‘at least Mum always told us the truth about the big things.’’
This has worked brilliantly up to a point. My kids do indeed appreciate my honesty now they’re grown up. But by golly it’s had its downsides too.
In the December before she turned nine, my daughter turned her big blue eyes on me and asked the direct question to end all. ‘‘Mum, is Santa actually you?’’
Even in that moment of pure panic I had to admire her for the careful phrasing. Zero room to fudge the answer, darn it. I took a long breath, told her the truth, and ruined her childhood. She burst into noisy tears.
I’ve tried to be good at the Santa schtick, I really have, schlepping all over town every year for the latest Sylvanian Families figurines or Star Wars Lego, (then skateboards and basketballs, then FIFA games and MAC lipsticks) but there was always something waiting to trip me up. Sure as eggs, it wasn’t long before I stuffed it up again.
When my son was 10 we all went to Melbourne for Christmas with my family. Shopping last-minute in the crush of a megaMall, I distractedly asked the boy his opinion on a nail polish colour for my sister. Would she like navy blue? He was polite enough to glance at it and answer, but was keen to get to the icecream stand.
On Christmas morning, when the nail polish came out of its wrapping – ‘‘Love from Santa’’ – my sister was indeed delighted. But the 10-year-old gave me a dark look and summonsed me, in a wobbly voice, to a meeting the bedroom.
‘‘What’s going on?’’ he demanded. ‘‘I saw you buy that in David Jones yesterday.’’ Oh lordie, I’m crap at this.
The Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny; all the deceptions essential to the parenting of young children can be very difficult to sustain. And Christmas has become even harder for some in the past few years, thanks to the Elf On The Shelf.
If you’re not familiar with this new ‘‘tradition’’, Elf On The Shelf sprang from a US childrens’ book released in 2005, and has become a multi-million dollar, worldwide business adding yet another stress point to the parent’s pre-Christmas slog. The rules go like this: The Elf (a wee felt puppet) arrives in the house on December 1 to spy on your children and report back to Santa.
You must not touch the Elf or it loses its magic.
And here’s the killer – every night, when the children are asleep, the Elf must change position, so the kids can get up and find it in another sidesplitting position elsewhere in the house. Depending on your viewpoint, this is either a delightful game or an absolute tyranny. There are Instagram posts of Elves captured in blocks of ice (frozen by Elsa, of course), in marshmallow snowball fights with Buzz Lightyear, riding My Little Pony, and captured by toy soldiers. I can only salute these parents for their creativity and energy.
Fortunately for me, mine are too old for this. As if there’s not enough to do in the last frantic few days before December 25 already. Ever forgotten to put a lost tooth under the pillow for the Tooth Fairy? (I have) Well EotS is that feeling, every night. When you roll into bed after yet another work Christmas party or end of year catch-up, you’re heading for a 3am wake-up as you remember you haven’t moved the blimmin’ Elf. As one blogger said, ‘‘We were already in hell, and then the Elves came.’’
It’s either your thing as a parent or it’s not, I guess. My children accepted that Santa’s helper is not a natural fit for me not the year I gave up used the same paper and handwriting for everything. They know they’re fortunate to get anything at all, as so many kids don’t. My daughter now has her own Christmas tradition – she donates a portion of her (meagre) savings to a different charity every year.
And I keep stuffing it up. This year I bought my son a gift online and, unable to resist the lure of an extra 20% off, signed up with his email address. A couple of days later he was getting shipping emails confirming his size M basketball compression tights were on their way. Walking into my daughter’s room I found a book I’d meant to wrap sitting on her bedside table. Where did you find that, I asked, outraged. Right where it is now, she smiled indulgently.
Whoopsie. Failed again. Merry Christmas!
We were already in hell, and then the Elves came.