Jorge Silva
Years
ago, when our son was a harmless bundle of blue blankets and diapers, my
husband and I decided to go along with the Santa con, mostly out of laziness.
We had discussed how annoying the holidays were, how Santa had become the
fictitious embodiment of a consumer culture gone mad, how we didn’t want to lie
to our child.
           But in the end we thought, Awww, wouldn’t it be cute to have a picture
of him on Santa’s lap?
           Now our son is a walking, talking
person. And we’re in way over our heads. He recently looked at me with all the
openness and trust of a child who’s never been lied to and said, “How does
Santa get around to all the children in the whole world in just one night?”
           “By sleigh,” I said, rolling out
cookie dough, sensing trouble.
           “But how exactly does he make it all that way?”
           “Fast
sleigh,” I said, nervously jabbing the bell-shaped cutter into the dough.
           “Fast reindeer you mean, right Mom?” he asked. “Or is there some other
form of power?”
           “That’s right, honey,” I said
vaguely. A light sweat broke out on my forehead. I was shaking as I opened a
tiny vial of red sprinkles and by accident dumped them on my hand and arm.
           “How fast? Like as fast as the speed
of light?”
           “Uh-huh.” I said. As I wiped my arm
with a damp sponge, the red sprinkles dissolved into a blood-like smear. Was it
getting hot in here or was it just me?
Now keep in
mind that this is a child who has spent nearly as much time in the 21st century as
the 20th. That means that, thanks to the Discovery Channel, CNN Student News
online, and a half-dozen other information sources that he accesses daily, the
kid knows a thing or two about the world.
           White lies about Santa were probably
a whole lot easier to swallow in the old days, when rolling a large hoop with a
short stick was considered a wondrous pastime.
           Kids today are information junkies.
Instead of riding their bikes up and down the street (kidnappers) or roaming
the woods behind their friends’ houses (pedophiles) or lolling about in the
front yard imagining that cloud shapes are animals (boring), they are sitting
somewhere trading facts.
           This is a typical conversation
between my son and his best friend:
           “Did you know Jupiter has a canyon
the size of the whole United States?” my son says.
           “The great apes with the largest
brains are chimpanzees. But the human brain is the largest of the primates,” his friend answers.
           “Most people think gravity comes
from the earth spinning, but it doesn’t. They don’t know what causes gravity,”
my son says. “I think it’s the
magnetosphere.”
           They don’t even listen to each
other. And, excuse me, magnetosphere?
Is that even a real thing? How am I supposed to fob off a load of hooey about a
fat guy in a fast sled to a kid who hoards factoids the way I used to hoard
Halloween candy?
Circling the
kitchen with the confidence of a murder investigator who’s toying with his perp, he
closed in on me. “Hey, didn’t that Einstein book say that nothing but light can
travel at the speed of light?” He had me. The cuffs were on.
           “Hm. I’m just going to walk over
here and preheat the oven,” I said casually. I turned the dial, yanked the door
open, and stuck my head in. I needed some time to think.
           At first I felt remorse: Why was I
lying to this poor child? Was the Santa myth really worth ruining my
credibility with him?
           And I blamed myself. I’d always
wanted children with inquisitive minds. But I’d created a monster. All that
educational enrichment made him too smart for me to handle. I should have kept
the television on. I should have stuck him in a playpen and spent more time
cozying up to the Schnapps bottle.
           Then I got mad. If he’s so damn
smart, why doesn’t he figure it out for himself and put me out of my misery?
           Then, like a seeker in a Native
American sweat lodge, I had a vision. I saw a happy family sitting around the
dinner table contemplating the mysteries of the universe. It was my family and
we were in awe of the great spiritual wonders of life.
           Enlightened, I pulled my head out of
the oven. I was a cynic living in a cynical age. Science, not religion or faith
or superstition, guides me through life. It suddenly struck me as sad that most
of today’s mysteries will dissipate with tomorrow’s discoveries. Such certainty
takes the magic out of life.
           The Santa con was my husband’s and
my way of creating a little magic for our son. In a world full of logical
explanations, we were trying to give him a sense of wonder.
           I brushed the flour off my apron and
pulled him toward me. “Maybe Santa is like a light wave. Or a laser beam,” he
said, straining to connect the mythical with the physical world. He’s a big boy
now and he’s bound to find out the truth soon. He’ll be disappointed, but he’ll
survive.
           The question is, will he continue to
look for wonder and mystery? Where will he turn to contemplate the great
unknowns of the universe? What will replace Santa?
           I’m banking on the magnetosphere.
This article appears in Nov 20-26, 2002.
