New Statesman Scotland - That's not Santa. That's my daddy
The first time I was Santa, for a school fair, my unsuspecting children wouldn't approach me. They peered interestedly round the corner into my grotto, but none of my mittened waves could persuade them to approach. And this was without even hearing me speak. I'd managed to lower my voice an octave to hit a yo-ho-ho timbre, but I couldn't yet seem to eradicate that sense of something sinister whenever I said, "Hello little boy . . ." or "Now little girl . . ."
The job had come with its own Santa suit, yet when it was whispered about that I was to be Santa, an offer of a suit came from two members of staff whose spouses, it turned out, owned the outfits themselves. At first I found this both intriguing and somehow unsettling. By all means take your children to any number of fake Santas and not let on; go through the whole make-believe of letters up chimneys and the hanging of stockings; nibble your carrots if you will and quaff on the night whatever's left out for you; but actually to play Santa in your own house seemed like a bare-faced deception too far, simply storing up trouble ahead: "Yeah, sure, Dad, everyone was at it, but you were the only one who . . ."
Well he wasn't. And a short and more kindly meditation on the Santa-suit owners explains why. Put simply: after the childhood dream of wanting to have everything, there is the adult and godlike dream of wanting to be able to give everything; to reach into a capacious sack and to satisfy all desires in those we love. It is the frustration of both of these understandable positions that leads to much Christmas anguish. Fully recognising that it comes at the lighter end of the spectrum, I recall a Christmas trip I made to New York some years ago to visit an American girlfriend.
I had spent the better part of two weeks packing and repacking my suitcase, embedding within it the Christmas presents for her and her family. In an overspill bag, I carried three pairs of shoes and a Christmas cake from my mother. On the train, after Preston, I glanced down to the luggage store at the carriage end and could not see my case. OK, I said, I'm going to look again and if it's back I'll think about whatever meaning might be attached to such an event and accept it. It wasn't. OK, same goes for if it's moved compartments. It hadn't. I sped up and down the train now, emitting small hamster-like sounds at the back of my throat, as passengers shrank into their magazines and books. Not the British Rail guards, who informed me that nothing could be done.
At Euston, I recovered a suitcase, smaller but of similar style to my own. Unclicked, a cursory glance at frilled underwear showed it could be of little help. My friends in London kitted me out as best they could and I hastily bought a second set of presents. For all that, Air Kuwait, whose security was intense, showed great suspicion at such a lightly burdened traveller, declaring three pairs of shoes and a Christmas cake. On my return, I opened my reclaimed suitcase and felt, in spite of all the joys of my Christmas, a searing disappointment faced by the material love that I had been unable to bestow.
So I welcome the opportunity to act out the Beneficent One. It came again two years ago when our friend Gail, then a playgroup organiser, rang me in desperation as her Santa had contracted gout. The only thing that concerned her was that our daughter, Jenny, was in the group. "No problem. Last time I was Santa my kids wouldn't come near me. Besides, I'll take no chances." And I didn't. Indeed it was a very confident Santa who greeted the children, their expectation like glitter in the air. (I was particularly pleased with my reindeer repartee, I recall.)
As I gave out the presents, I was aware of Jenny out of the corner of my eye, wide-eyed, entranced, but - a thorough professional - I gave her no particular attention. Boy, was I good!
I waved goodbye and ran out to Gail's waiting car. "Well," she said, "do you think Jenny recognised you?"
"Not a chance. You know, there's something wonderful about children's desire to believe."
Sandra, our childminder, left soon after with Jenny. "Did you enjoy that?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And what did you think of Santa?"
Jenny spoke without hesitation or disappointment. "That wasn't Santa. That was my daddy."
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