The trouble with Santa...

Aware that I’m running the risk of being saddled with a sack of fossil fuel on Christmas morning, I have a confession to make. I have a problem with Santa. A big problem.

When our eldest daughter entered the interrogation stage…

“Why?”

Pause so that for one tantalising moment the interrogated imagines that their response has sufficed.

“But why?”

… I introduced a policy of answering every question honestly.

The policy has not been glitch-free. I still giggle-cringe at the memory of an exchange between our then 4-year-old and a little friend.

“When will you be getting your new baby from chapel?”

“Our new baby will be coming from my mummy’s front-bottom, all being well.”

I know, I know. The front-bottom thing. I must have been put on the spot, at some point, about babies’ exit routes.

Front-bottoms aside, though, my policy worked pretty well. Until Santa reared his jolly, apple-cheeked head. With his implausible supply chain. And - the ultimate lie in the myth of meritocracy – his naughty or nice list.

“Does the more you get mean the nicer you’ve been?”

“Are the children who get the shoe-boxes naughty?”

During the death throes of the Celtic Tiger, with two parent-creatives attempting to eke out a living, our family certainly had its share of lean moments. One particularly tough year, our daughters’ gift was a pre-loved puppet theatre obtained from a generous friend with an older child in exchange for a tiny donation – “just whatever you can afford” - to Trócaire.

But even as our coffers have become fuller – the relief! – we are far from extravagant, gift-wise. And not just because we’re uncomfortable about dumping our family’s contribution on to the growing global mountain of unrecyclable plastic tat. And that leaves me feeling conflicted about the message we’re sending our daughters.  

“Is Santa real?”

On one hand, there is brutal honesty, “It kills me to tell you this, kids, but the big guy is little more than a cynical construct of capitalism.”

On the other hand, there’s encouraging a sense of magic and wonder and meaning. And there’s a lot to be said for that, no matter what age you are.  

So, I did a bit of digging into Santa’s back-story - the pre-commercialism years, if you like - and I came up with a workaround. I wrote a story - rooted in fact but with a generous sprinkling of make-believe - the telling of which has become a traditional part of our family’s Christmas. 

My story is rough and ready - I'll polish it and publish it, at some point - but it makes the point that Lisa Hannigan makes far more poetically:

“Your heart, it holds more than your hands.”

Could there be a more perfect Christmas message?