A Christmas Parable
In the early 2000s, I dressed up as Santa Claus each year to support a local non-profit that used my workplace to celebrate the holidays with children with disabilities. I was reluctant to dress up as Saint Nick. I was a young man, maybe 20-22 years old. I wasn't comfortable with expressing myself that way just yet in life. Regardless, on came the red suit, the black boots, and the white fluffy beard.
At this event, office cubicles normally used for financial discussions became mini-winter wonderlands to entertain the kids. Mid-event I would sneak into the back of the office and rapidly change into Santa Claus. As I came out, the kids' faces lit up in awe. I would sit in a designated chair asking kids what they wanted for the celebrated holiday. The kids would sit on my leg and tell me the things they wanted for Christmas. More often, kids would ask for whatever the popular toys were at that time. Occasionally, the conversation would drift to "my realness."
During this time, my daughter was a toddler. I made it a point to celebrate Christmas and the Christmas spirit with her when she was that age. Watching her eyes widen when talking about Santa Claus is one of my core memories.
In the final year of this experience, I called my ex-wife who lived across the state in Southern NV, and asked to speak to our daughter. Once she picked up, I reminded her about this event and said that I would see Santa that day and asked her what she wanted for Christmas. She was excited. So excited that in her elation she told her mom, "Mom! Daddy is going to see Santa... the real one... in Carson City...". I heard a brief response from my ex-wife that day that instantly spawned tears down my cheeks. I heard, "...Santa Claus is not real. Your dad is Santa...". My 3-year-old daughter returned to the phone and repeated what I heard. In my broken voice, I told her that Santa Claus is real and that not everyone believes in him, but that we do. She didn't even tell me her wishlist before we got off the phone.
Fast forward a few weeks, and my daughter is now with me for the holidays. I made sure to buy all of the gifts I thought she would enjoy. We baked cookies. Consumed eggnog. And set out cookies and milk for Santa. Understandably skeptical, she asked many questions to prove that Santa was real. Once she went to bed, I got to work.
I was sick. I had some kind of winter flu bug that I dealt with for a week or so. It was rough, but I consumed the milk and took a bite of a cookie. I placed the empty cup and once-bitten cookie back on the plate. I placed all of Santa's gifts under the tree. Given the circumstances, I made sure to open the window in our bedroom which led out on the roof, and put reindeer prints in the snow. I left Twix in the snow as reindeer poop.
When my daughter woke, I showed her that Santa had shown up and showed her the random proof. She saw the reindeer poop and giggled audibly. As we walked downstairs, she saw Santa's footsteps (flour surrounding a shoeprint) all over the house. She exclaimed, "DADDY! Santa didn't eat all of his cookies!" She laughed and smiled. She saw all of the presents and was thrilled as she opened each of them. This Christmas, there was no doubt that SANTA IS REAL.
Some years later, I found myself feeling inadequate because Santa gave amazing gifts and my gifts didn't live up to the hype. The following Christmas, Santa's responsibilities turned from the big gifts to the stockings. But the Christmas spirit was alive and well in my home.
There was one year I was so broke that I had $60 to cover Christmas presents, AND wrapping items, AND Christmas dinner. I bought several Dollar Store gifts for my daughter and one big gift - a $20 box set of the Disney Princess Barbies. That night, I cried as I wrapped everything. Dinner was simple, Little Caesar's Hot & Ready Pizza. My mind reflected on all of the gifts her mom had given her during Christmases... bicycles, animals, toys, video games, etc., and I felt as if I fell short this year.
When my daughter woke, she LOVED EVERY SINGLE GIFT! She played more with the Dollar Store toys than she did the Disney Princess Barbies. To my surprise, she loved everything about Christmas. She was about 6 years old during this time. All of my fears did not matter. Christmas was perfect.
If you're still reading, I'd love to share with you what I learned about these experiences. It's not about the toy, the gift, or the expense. It's about the experience. If nothing else proves it, the pure elatedness expressed by my daughter showed that it didn't matter the value or even the quality of the gift. Christmas spirit is what mattered. The love of the season. The core memories she'll have of baking cookies, finding reindeer poop, or the amazing Dollar Store toys that she had will all stick with her. Christmas is much more than my experience, or any other parent's. It's about the pure joy we're able to provide our children. It's about the shared love within our families. It's about celebrating the reason for the season.
This year, I want to wish you a very Merry Christmas. And for those who do not celebrate, Happy Holidays. Thank you all for supporting this venture of mine.
Brian
