The Big, Fat, Jolly Red Lie.

I love Santa. And when I say love, I don’t mean with a half-embarrassed sigh of nostalgic irony. No, I absolutely adore that big fat bundle of joy and happiness.

It’s always been thus. Some of my earliest, happiest memories involve snowy December nights spent in lying on my tummy in front of our family’s woodstove, happily drawing picture after picture of St. Nick while Rudolph, or Frosty or even that lame little Drummer Boy played on the television.

And it didn’t end there. My fascination with this round elfin gift-giver endured year round, as I pored  over the illustrate stories of The Night Before Christmas, while trying to finally nail down the right proportions for all those reindeer in my perennially-dwindling stock of fawn brown pencil crayons. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I realized my favourite holiday books actually (and incorrectly) depicted graceful woodland deer as Santa’s flighty team, rather than their cloddy, graceless Nordic cousin.

 I much preferred the Bambi-esque team, personally.

 One of my favourite memories is of a childhood birthday party, where one of my friends’ parents had thoughtfully provided a magician to entertain their son’s guests. That poor, brave, man, already facing about a dozen sugar-infused monsters, trying to divert our attention with intertwining rings, card tricks and sleight of hand. He must have been so relieved to reach, at long last, the apex of his programme, where he dramatically whipped the top hat off of his head, and called out, “Children! What shall I pull from my hat?”

 I leapt up, feverish with excitement, demanding an item long-sought after but never achieved: “A plastic Santa sleigh with eight reindeer!”

I still remember the silence, followed by quizzical looks from my sticky-faced peers. Mr. Magic, without missing a beat, admirably replied “A bunny rabbit it is!”, producing said leporidae with a quick flourish before beating a hasty retreat to his shiny red van parked outside.

And now, after a lifetime of cherishing the Christmas, I finally have my own son to indoctrinate into the fold. I had a hell of a good start: from the first year he spent with us, Pre-Schooler N was surrounded by the lush spectacle of holiday décor that festoons our house for the last four weeks of every year. At last count, I had 34 Santas, 23 Frosties, and more reindeer, trees and angels than any sane person should possess in one lifetime.

Not My Actual House. PS: I admire their restraint. 

The  mantle positively groans with several of the round red little fellas, perhaps improbably surrounding the Nativity manger scene as they descend from sleighs, hoist holly and offer candy canes to baby Jesus.

Many of my most cherished decorations were inherited by my aunt and Nan, both of whom adored the seasonal garishness with all the flocking and plastic that the 1950s and sixties had to offer. Ebay and other sources have only enriched my collection of vintage tchotchkes.

If I’d had any concerns that my son would be less enthusiastic about Mr. Kringle et all, I need not have worried. He loves Santa. He loves the flying reindeer. He loves the sleigh. He loves the colour red. And it makes me really happy that he’s revelling in that delicious mystery and magic of childhood fantasy.

Even if it’s all a big fat lie.

It is, I believe, the only thing I’ve ever truly lied to him about. And, despite my heartfelt desire to ignite his imagination with this wonderful myth, it does give me pause. After all, one day he’ll know. He’ll know that I lied to him. That I constructed an incredibly detailed deception, complete with music, candy, toys and roasted dead birds, and wrapped it all up in a shiny red bow.

And I would do it again. In heartbeat.

I was so comforted by the Christmas myth during my own childhood. My shitty parents were nicer, my big sister almost seemed to like me (a rare thing, given that I was three years younger and almost certainly a huge pain in the ass) and the idea that this lovable, chubby elf loved me enough to bring me gifts just made me feel truly happy. When I finally twigged to the fact that it was all make-believe around 9 years of age, I was old enough that I wasn’t devastated like younger kids who learned about it at the playground by some smug bastard whose parents were too cool to allow their kids a little harmless fantasy. I still loved Santa, and the comfort he’d given me through the years, with all my heart.

 So, this once, I will lie to my son. I’ll do so because I’m as honest as I can be with everything else in his precious young life. I will only lie to him this once, and never again.

Except when it comes to the Tooth Fairy.

And the Easter Bunny, of course.

And how we never, ever eat chocolate for breakfast.

And how sex is better if you love the person.

And that my tummy sticks out abit because I drink lots of water.

Alright, so I’m a big fat liar too. Merry Christmas :)

Baby's First Funeral

Ok, so he’s not actually a baby anymore, but Pre-Schooler N is about to experience his first funeral. What a milestone. Someone get out the camera.

Now I totally get that many people think a funeral is no place for a child – in fact, I usually agree with that sentiment. Kids don’t belong at weddings, funerals or birthday parties for anyone over the age of 16, barring a quick appearance looking freshly scrubbed and cherubic before toddling off without protest to play quietly on their own.

Yeah right. I can dream.

But this won’t be your typical funeral. For one thing, it’s more of a memorial, with casual remembrances and conversation. My friend Lorri wouldn’t have wanted anything religious, possessing the sort of New Age-y view that so many of us have when it comes to life, spiritualism etc etc. She talked a lot about “The Universe” and “Putting Things out There” and things being “Meant to Happen.” It’s a common lexicon for those of us who have bugger-all of a clue what goes on beyond our human borders, but feel sort of hopeful that it’s all being run by a consciousness or system nowhere near as fucked up as our own.

It may sound sort of airy-fairy, but I figure it expresses far more humility and curiosity than the born-again nutjobs screaming their spleens out about some vengeful, petty deity who has little in common with the actual writings they profess to cherish. Ah well, they’re just scared, I supposed. But holy shit they’re terrifying, aren’t they?

So, back to the whole funeral thing. I’m taking Pre-Schooler N for two reasons, one practical and one a little more philosophical. The first is that finding childcare will be problematic, and Professor D needs to spend the afternoon marking his students’ essays. Given that this deadly task will undoubtedly require much cursing, ravings, tears and blessed alcohol, it may be best for the wee lad and myself to be absent.  

But even more importantly, Pre-Schooler N has been asking more about death as of late. I've answered him as simply and honestly as I can, but I think of this as a trial run for the inevitable passing of someone he actually knows that may arise during his childhood. Having never met Lorri, he doesn't have much emotional investment in our loss of her.

Actually, if I’m really honest, I suppose  there is another reason I want him there with me. Lorri and I were once close friends. We talked constantly on the phone, went out together on weekends, and were thoroughly enmeshed in each other’s lives. But she was a complex and complicated person, and, sadly, I have a cold streak a mile wide when it comes to issues arising in friendships and relationships. If I feel taken advantage of, or purposefully insulted, or taken for granted, I simply turn off. I don’t yell or scream or carry on, I just retreat. It’s not something I’m proud of, though it is something that has probably saved me a lot of heartache in life.

I’m guessing it comes from a family life that wasn’t a lot of fun. I felt emotionally abandoned, abused and tormented at home, and my response was to just seal myself off. After being told I no longer had a home with them (my parents didn’t like gay people), I think my choice of survival was to just sever my emotional connection to these people who had made it clear they didn’t much like me.

And that probably helped save my life. I wasn’t exactly Stable Mabel back then, so coping with that sort of rejection was waaaay beyond my limited resources.

But the endurance of this sort of reaction in times of conflict has resulted in a sort of ‘three strikes and you’re out’ emotional response that isn’t conscious but is certainly pervasive. I’m not ignoring Lorri’s own responsibility in the faltering of our friendship here, just owning up to my own culpability, and my negligence in not valuing the friendship enough to pursue healing and reconciliation. Something I need to face now that I’m parenting a little human who will test every limit I have, and need me to hold strong.

I would have liked Lorri to have met my son. We’d been in contact over Facebook for a couple of years, and she had offered sincere congratulations at the adoption. We chatted a little, from time to time, and I know Pre-Schooler N would have loved her wry sense of humour, her natural affection for children (despite professing discomfort with them) and her warmth.

So, as paltry a gesture as it may seem, having him there to pay tribute to my erstwhile friend feels like a good and natural thing. He can hear what kind of person she was, and see photos of her, and share the feeling of her spirit as it lingers within those of us who knew and loved her.

Here’s to you Lorri. I wish my son had had the pleasure of meeting you. But I’m deeply thankful that I did.

d