I have a story to tell. It's about Christmas 1997. That Christmas little Encyclopedia Brittanica (that's me) decided this whole Santa deal didn't make sense. Some things change when you grow up. Some things don't. I still know everything and I still ask a shit ton of questions. And one cold December day, I needed answers. Could I have pondered the mysteries of the North Pole on my own? Yes. Could I have Googled it? No, Google didn't exist. This resulted in me pulling up my britches and stomping into my parents' room. Without a hello or how do you do I ripped into them with a searing question.
Is Santa real?
Without hesitation, the blow was delivered.
I did what any self-respecting 9 year old would do. I burst into tears and marched out the room. I was pissed. Partly because Santa wasn't real but mostly because these muthafuckas had liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiied to me.
They had lied to me for 9 years. NINE YEARS. Do you know how long 9 years is to a 9 year old!?!
Now that I'm older, I can ponder the absurdity of the Santa Claus character. A fat white guy commits B&E by shimmying down a chimney just to leave bad ass kids presents. All the happiness in the world was brought by some fat white guy. I don't recall the answers my parents must have fed me so I would shut the hell up but I wonder if it ever crossed my mind how he got in. We didn't have a chimney. Did someone purposely leave the door open? How do we know Santa is white if no one ever sees him? I guess 'cuz if Santa was black, he woulda been shot and/or arrested by now.
It makes me think about whether I will tell my kids about Santa considering a lot of the time I wish I could just opt out of Christmas. Probably because I never had a great Christmas. As a kid I never wished and hoped and prayed for one thing that I would go ape shit over if it was under the tree. I was very practical. I didn't ask for ponies, I didn't like dolls, and I didn't know what a rock tumbler was. In fact, the most I've ever yearned for a gift was Christmas '09 when all I asked for was an external hard drive. After opening the 5 or so gifts from my father and step mother (redacted mean statement) I was pissed. Then we went to my grandma's and turns out she got it for me. But it wasn't like I was ecstatic. I just wasn't pissed any more.
|I'm going to be grumpy...until the end of this sentence!|
Will your kids be on the receiving end of countless lies and reasons to never trust you because of Good Ol' Saint Nick?