On Christmas Eve, some assembly (and counseling) required
As Christmas draws near, parents of young children the world over face the same question: When should we tell the little ones the truth about Santa Claus? It was December 1979 when I learned the truth, although my parents informed me in a rather unorthodox way.
School had just let out for the holiday, and my younger brother Jack and I, our minds respectively unburdened by first and third grade thoughts, ran about the house like a pair of sugar-addled spider monkeys. It was Dec. 24, and all that stood between us and Santa’s bounty was Christmas Vigil Mass.
We dutifully put on itchy gray-flannel slacks and matching sweaters with our names emblazoned on them. It was the kind of outfit that made a mother happy on Christmas Eve, but invited a playground beating every other day of the year. Somehow we managed to sit still throughout the liturgy.
We got home and took off our church clothes as quickly as if they were NBA tear-away warmers. After dinner it was time to get dressed for bed, not that we had any intention of sleeping. We just needed to throw our mother off the trail.
Jack and I faked slumber in our shared bedroom as its old door creaked open. Mom usually turned in after dad, and when the hallway light from her bed-check hit my face, I knew we were ten minutes or so from safely commencing our first-ever Santa stakeout.
The two of us hadn’t even tip-toed out of the front hall when we knew something was amiss. A noise was coming from our basement, which was strange, since no chimney led down to that level.
Perhaps Santa was setting up a larger gift downstairs, we reasoned. After all, we had behaved fairly decently that year. My brother and I pressed on.
It was almost too good to be true: Jack and I were on the cusp of visual confirmation of St. Nick! Half-way down the basement stairs, our ears alerted us to something that stopped us dead in our tracks.
It was a banging worthy of Hephaestus, the kind you wouldn’t expect from someone as proficient in last-mile toy assembly as Kris Kringle. Worse still, Father Christmas cursed like a sailor, with a voice too deep for an elf, and an odd preference for some of our dad’s favorite maledictions. We snuck back to our bedroom, silently processing all we’d learned.
On Christmas Day, after all the upstairs presents were opened, dad led us down to the basement. It was a ping-pong table, the gift whose assembly had given my old man — I mean Santa – such grief the night before.
Did early discovery deprive me of precious childhood moments? Perhaps. A father of five now, though, I never fail to smile on Christmas morning when I recall my dad, nobody’s handyman, cursing his way through solitary assembly duties. Even if it’s a scene Norman Rockwell never quite felt compelled to paint.