Honestly, Santa!

When my daughter was born in 1976 the mantra of most child psychologists was be honest, be honest, be honest. (So was no cookies and only PBS, so you get the idea how crazy ungenius this idea was.)  When Ingrid was three or so, Santa became an issue.  She thought he was great, of course, stealthily squirming down the chimney, dropping off Pound Puppies and My Little Ponies, then flying off to the next house. In other words, she was happy as long as she did not have to see the jolly old elf himself.

Not seeing Santa was a fine plan until we decided to do what all loving parents do in December (unless you are lucky enough to be a Hanukkah family), take an excursion to the nearest mall to wait on a line long enough to reach the North Pole for the "pleasure" of sitting on Santa's lap and, well, begging for presents.  This is usually done especially to acquire a couple of angelic pictures of the aforementioned little begger. (Pardon my cynicism.)

But Ingrid hated Santa Claus - every one of them - after her first episode spent whimpering through the ordeal on the lap of a pathetically skinny, more ho-hum than ho-ho guy.  We resolved to spare the tyke any more trauma.  So no more Santa.  Now what? It was then that I had the Christmas star brilliant idea and solution to the problem.

I reasoned that if honesty WAS the best policy, then telling Ingrid that there really was no Santa would do the trick and restore her to her original non-neurotic state.  So I told her that the real Santa Claus was a 4th century bishop who was a saint called Nicholas who gave children presents.  The child was perfectly content with this information.  In fact, it was a perceptible relief for her to hear this!  So, on a roll and excited to extinguish any remaining anxiety, I, with much too much enthusiasm, said that indeed Santa was gone, yep he died.  He was DEAD.  She was thrilled!  (Her brother, by the way, even after hearing this revelation went on blissfully believing in the fat man.)

Yes, there is a climax to this story.  It came the next year in a small department store in a mall in Brookings, S.D. We had taken brother Jamie to see the Most Jolly One and told Ingrid she did not have to participate.  And in a voice as loud as a child's could be in a place full of scores of adults and children, she stated: "But Mommy, you said Santa was dead!"  Oh boy.  Let's put it this way, many, many people turned around and I assume glared like ghosts of Christmas past although I could not face them.  All I could do was mutter "that's right, honey, he died in 346 A.D."  And we hustled away.