Papa Prissy Pants: 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.