Santa still shines in innocent eyes

When it comes to mothering style, I’d never be considered in the same realm of, say, June Cleaver. Or Carol Brady. Or even Marge Simpson. Or any mom who always says the right thing at the right time, armed with a plate of fresh baked cookies and a warm smile. On the flip side, I’m not Mommie Dearest, either. I fall somewhere in between, depending on the weather (on really humid days I’m likely to channel Joan Crawford), the time of day (I’ve always been a morning

person, so I’m more June Cleaver-ish in a.m.) and how I perceive life to be treating me.

A few days ago, though, I surprised even myself with my Grinch-like attitude with my youngest child. A truly good and decent mom would not have - 1 – asked the question I asked to Matthew, but - 2 – would not have made matters worse by being disappointed at his answer.

So, the other day Matthew and I were in Rite Aid, in the seasonal aisle, when I spotted a display for Little Golden Books – and there along with a lot of other Christmas classics (Rudolph, Frosty) was “The Night Before Christmas.” I picked it up and paged through it to confirm what I first thought – it was the same book, illustrated by Corinne Malvern, that I remember cherishing when I was a kid.

Gosh, I loved that book. I sat for what seemed like hours on the pink nylon sofa in our living, paging through that book and wishing I was one of those little girls in the petticoats and that my father wore a cap and my mom wore a kerchief (whatever that was). I wished like anything that my sister and I would have visions of sugar plums dancing in our heads and that my brothers wouldn’t break out in wrestling matches and therefore prevent St. Nicholas from coming down our non-existent chimney. For the record, this question was answered by my all-knowing and incredibly intelligent sister when I was a child. I asked her how Santa got in our house since we didn’t have a fire place. Without missing a beat she pointed to the corner of the living room and proclaimed that, on Christmas, Santa magically produced a fireplace right in that very spot, used it to gain entrance and leave the toys, and then, after leaving by that magical fireplace, made it disappear and returned the wall to its rightful place. She said all this with such authority I was confident it had to be true.

Now, I’m pretty sure that by the time she got to me, and spinning the same story with my three brothers, she was just well-rehearsed.

Anyway, back to Rite Aid…

I stood there holding the book, and showed it to Matthew. Since we read every night, I asked him if he would like this book to read. He seemed a little disinterested, so I asked again, with a bit more aggression than I intended (I really did love that book!). So, he said yes, he’d like it.

And now, here it comes – the question I shouldn’t have asked but did.

“Do you even still believe in Santa?” Ugh. He looked at me with those sweet blue eyes and said simply, “yes.” Double ugh. Yes, Matthew is 16 and by all rights should not believe that an overweight man in a red suit and white beard breaks into our house, eats the cookies we have to leave out, and dispenses nicely wrapped and color-coded gifts (Kaitlyn is red, Tommy is green and Matthew is blue – saves time on writing out gift tags or, as my mom did, write initials) under our Christmas tree.

But, because Matthew has Down syndrome and his development is delayed, there is still an innocence and purity about him that belies his age.

At that point, though, I remembered none of those things. I just knew I wanted the kid not to still believe.

Why? What would that get me? Those were the questions I asked after the fact.

For one, I was always annoyed that Santa got credit for the really hardfought gifts that sat under the tree – the gifts that Jim and I had to save money for, or find in stores. I confessed that to Jim one year, and in his typical fashion, just shrugged his shoulders and said, “does it matter who gets the credit? It only matters that the kids are happy.”

Easy for him so say – he wasn’t the one knocking people over to get the last Furby on the shelf.

In the long run, and this seems to be my end game all the time, it would be easier if Matthew didn’t believe in Santa. I wouldn’t have to remember to put cookies and celery sticks out for Santa and the reindeer. I would be able to put the gifts under the tree at a decent time and not have to wait until he was asleep (see above, where I write that I’m a morning person, thereby making me NOT a night owl).

The honest, harsh truth, though, was that I wanted him not to believe, because, well, he’s 16. In my mind, as a teenager, he absolutely shouldn’t believe in that overweight man in the red suit and the white beard. And when I realized that was the real reason I was disappointed in his answer – well, I for sure wasn’t feeling like June Cleaver. It was selfish and ridiculous to think that way, no doubt.

The other day I looked again into Matthew’s sweet blue eyes – trying to see the world as he does. And while I’m too jaded, too cynical to truly appreciate his world and his perception of life, one thing did become very clear. Santa, or St. Nicholas – personifies true goodness. He’s a selfless, giving, compassionate, generous man who puts others before himself. He stands as a moral compass, encouraging good behavior, and inspiring others to give freely of themselves without asking for repayment or recognition.

I’m thinking we should all still believe in Santa Claus. Cheryl Kehoe Rodgers is a content editor at The Times Herald. She can be reached at crodgers@ timesherald.com. Online: Check out the lottery Master’s blog HTTPS://KARLSLOTTERYBLOG.BLOGSPOT.COM