Bad Parent: The Grinch
Why I won't let my child believe in Santa.
by Sasha Brown-Worsham
December 17, 2007
Beneath the mistletoe, cheerful songs and colorful bulbs that herald the Christmas holiday, one nefarious fib trumps all the good cheer -- Santa and his reindeer.
Each Christmas, parents around the country string twinkling lights, bake cookies, don reindeer sweaters and share tidings of lies and falsehoods. The story of Santa Claus, that jolly, large man in red felt who comes from the North Pole each Christmas to bring toys to the good boys and girls, thrills most children on Christmas Eve.
But not everyone. "I was vaguely afraid of Santa's wrath," my friend Amy tells me. "All year long, he was like a threat: 'Santa won't come if you don't finish your peas;' 'Hit your brother again and you will get a lump of coal in your stocking.' That's a lot for a kid to absorb."
I too spent my earliest Christmases huddled under the covers, scared of the obese, white-haired man who would come down the chimney by night and eat the cookies we left out. When I was four, my mother finally told me the truth -- not because she was opposed to lying, but because I was so frightened that I refused to go to bed on Christmas Eve.
A month before, we had waited in line for an hour so that I could sit on Santa's lap and tell him what I wanted for ChristmasWhy are we encouraged to tell the truth all year round, but then we lie about this? (a Barbie and some toys). I can still remember his smell, a mix of stale cigarettes and apple juice. He had sweaty wrists and bony thighs. I refused to sit.
"You won't get what you want then," warned my much better-behaved and happier friend, Sarah. But at that moment, all I wanted was to get away from that odd-looking man. So, a month later, the idea that I would be excited at the prospect of his visit to my parents' house was a bit unrealistic. "Is that man from the mall really going to come into our living room?" I asked my mother. She quickly caved.
I slept well that Christmas.
And yet, in the twenty-six ensuing Christmases, I have perpetuated the myth for other children — first for my little sister, who was less skeptical and less terrified; then for my little cousins, whose parents would have wrung my neck if I'd told the truth. But, always, in the back of my mind, there was some measure of discomfort. Why are we encouraged to tell the truth all year round, but then we lie about this? Isn't that the very definition of hypocrisy?
Now I am the mother and, with the holidays approaching, I'm faced with a dilemma. What do I tell my daughter?
I know most parents are horrified by the idea of abandoning the Santa myth. These parents encourage their children to send lists of gifts in envelopes addressed to "the North Pole." Each year, the post office is inundated by such letters, filled with the names of toys hopeful children want to see under their trees on December 25th. These are the parents who trudge each year to the mall, waiting in lines that snake into the parking lot so that their child can get one more photo with "Santa." And on Christmas Eve, these same parents will take bites out of the cookies their believing children left out for Santa and his reindeer. They will leave notes signed, "love Santa," thanking their children for being so good.
©2007 Sasha Brown-Worsham and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Sasha Brown-Worsham's writing has been published by The Boston Globe, The Christian Science Monitor, and Technology Review. She lives in Boston, where she keeps a blog on thefamilygroove.com and chases her daughter around the house while waiting for their newest family member to arrive. |
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