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PrintA reason to believe in Santa Claus
Jeff Van Hanken strives to keep Santa alive.
As I write this, the tension around our house mounts unbearably. My wife and I steal looks at each other, review snippets of conversation and feebly try to steer the discourse in the right direction without overplaying our hand.
And for the life of me, I can’t remember ever imagining that something seemingly so benign could become so fraught with anguish and double-dealing. Bold-faced lies. Conspiracies. I mean, it’s ridiculous. And let’s just take a quick look at what we have to sell: a gigantic, rotund man. Flies in a sleigh. Pulled by reindeer. With toys made by little elves.
Now, I’m certain that the key to the whole mythology lies somewhere in the physical description of Santa himself. Something just seems right about the beard — white, of course — the red suit and his generous stature. This is what gets the ball rolling. Who else would make all those toys but somebody who looks and dresses just like Santa? But although Santa in and of himself is believable, he’s almost too believable to really make the whole story giddy up and go. For that, you need the sleigh (obvious) and the elves (sure, elves make toys; why not) and the reindeer.
However, here is where I fear the first seeds of doubt are sown. You somehow have to skate past the logistical impossibility of it all.
Child: “How does he deliver all those toys in one night?”
Adult: “With reindeer!”
This line is said with emphasis and enthusiasm, probably too much enthusiasm, which eventually causes the child to ask:
Child: “But how does he go around the whole world?”
Adult: “Well … the reindeer fly.”
Child: “Huh?”
Adult (nervously backing out of the room): “They fly! I love you. Good night.” Door quickly closes. Adult runs.
That works for years 2, 3, 4 and 5. At 6, I was convinced: There is no way she’s going to go along with it. No way our smart, curious, beautiful little daughter can lie in bed on Dec. 24 convinced that a fat man in a red suit was flying through the sky to deliver a present specifically for her, and 1 billion other kids, all in one night. It’s the logistics. Maybe Santa does exist. Maybe he could fly. Maybe he does have a gift for me. But can he do it for every kid in the world in a neat 24-hour window (obviously, you have to beg for the benefit of a full day whereby he chases night as the globe spins)? Somebody may be pulling somebody’s leg, but for all we could tell, Santa skated through ages 6 and 7 as though he were no more fantastic than a Christmas snowfall. Truly, I was amazed, so prepared had I been for the whole charade to come crashing down. I felt badly for her younger brother because she would surely work hard to keep him in the dark but spill the beans regardless.
By the time you read this, however, I’m convinced: Santa will exist no longer. She’s 8 and I would wager there’s a 40 percent chance she’s trying as hard to humor us as we are to humor her.
My wife recently reported that our daughter replied to her queries as to what she wrote in her letters to Santa with a shattering, clear-eyed, “Why? Are you really Santa?” My wife said she stammered, gulped, mumbled “N-n-n-no” and ran.
But then, just the other night, “The Polar Express” was playing. I walked in the room, throwing caution to the wind, and off-handedly asked the two of them, “I forget, is this based on a real story?”
Her answer: “Not sure.” Said without a hint of cynicism. But again, did she say it for her, for me or for her brother, who was nestled beside her? No matter the answer, this is surely the last season and it will take an army of professional liars to keep her brother on the hook once she crosses over. So for us, this is a milestone: right there with first word, first step, first day of school.
They seem to grow further and further apart, these measures of time. And perhaps this is what makes myth so special: Santa, in his sleigh, pulled by his reindeer, hauling toys crafted by his dutiful elves, will forever remain ageless.
