. . . .on believing in Santa
MY MOTHER SAYS she never told us about him or encouraged us to believe in him. She let his story filter in from the outside so she wouldn’t feel responsible for its propagation. The legend seeped into our house like a benign rumour. From school friends or television ads or the twinkly-eyed questions from adults: “What’s Santy bringing you this year?”
And, because we expected it, every Christmas morning there was a pillow case full of stuff at the end of the bed. The best bits: chocolate coins, a tangerine and a kazoo. We heard all about him, we just didn’t hear about him from my mother and so, apart from the time she burnt the turkey that one year, she had a clear conscience at Christmas.
This first Christmas, the first one that might feature in their earliest memories, the one that will set the tone for all Christmases to come, I decide to do the same thing. I will not tell them his story directly. If other people want to discuss it then fine, but I will merely be a facilitator, not a perpetrator.
I explain to their father what we are doing. There will be strictly no expounding on magical, fantastical tales, just compliance with whatever story they bring back to us from the outside world. Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas with a Bob Cratchit-like devotion. So there will be a sack at the end of their beds filled with handfuls of chocolate coins and tangerines and kazoos if I can find them. But my conscience will be clear.
That is the plan. Then one day, I think it’s still November at this point, I start singing When Santa Got Stuck Up The Chimney to my girls and afterwards, independently of my brain, my mouth begins to tell them his story. About the North Pole, and Rudolph with his shiny nose. About the elves and the letters to Santa that must be written.
“Tell it again,” the children say.
“I thought we weren’t doing that,” says their father. “Apparently we are,” I say, launching into a detailed explanation of the machine the elves invented to figure out who is naughty and who is nice. I’ve got Santa-style Tourette’s. I have to say it feels pretty good.
Behold, Crimbozilla. Christmas FM, which raises funds for Focus Ireland, is pretty much the only radio station heard in our kitchen, which is how I know all the words to Justin Bieber’s actually quite brilliant festive effort.
The tree is probably going to be dead by tomorrow I had it up and decorated so early. We wear Santa hats around the dinner table, there’s holly bursting with red berries everywhere, and the hand-made Rudolph, fashioned from logs, made for us by our friend Ian, has pride of place in the sitting room.
There is only one snag. A gap in our Christmas preparations picked up on by one of the children. “Where,” one of them asks one day, “is Santa’s chimney?” I was hoping they wouldn’t notice. The fireplace has been blocked up since long before they were born. I knew I would get around to it one day and now, with Santa approaching, the moment had come. DIY is a bit of a dirty word in our house so at times like these we turn to our very handy man John, aka the dude who can do everything.
A trek down the Long Mile Road using a list of fireplace suppliers drawn up by John gives me a clear idea of what I don’t want (marble, stone, anything shiny or new) and a vision of what I do. Dusty, cast iron, down at heel. At Mac’s Salvage yard at Islandbridge, behind a load of other dusty, down-at-heel fireplaces, I find mine. Nothing fancy, no tiles or intricate decoration, just a few shamrocks and swirls worked into the unpainted black/brown iron. It is perfect. A fireplace fit for Santa with a simple slate hearth.
John works his magic and a few days later we light a fire for the first time. The room, our home, our Christmas, is transformed. We watch Elf and the Santa story grows more legs. But my conscience is clear. There’s no logic in magic. To quote that famous New York Sun editorial: “Not believe in Santa Clause! You might as well not believe in fairies!”
When I meet one of Santa’s representatives in Belfast I confide my fears about spreading his story to my children. I ask him what happens when the children get to the point where they start to question his very existence. The stage I most dread is the bit when one day I’ll have to counter the accusation that we were fibbing all along. I just don’t know what I’ll say.
“Och, my dear, none of that matters,” says Nordy Father Christmas stroking his big white beard thoughtfully. “You just keep telling them the truth, that you believe. It doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks.”
And it turns out I do believe. It just took having children to remind me. Now, to locate a couple of kazoos.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
In other news . . . Somewhat sacrilegiously, there will be no peeling, chopping, or general food preparation in our house for Christmas dinner. Tomorrow we sit down to a feast from the SuperValu butchers, a tray of beautifully-seasoned boned and stuffed turkey, veg and potatoes that you just stick in the oven for an hour and 20 minutes. Hassle free, delicious and only €15 for the lot. It might just become a tradition