I had a column ready for print, but before it got a chance to reach that stage, the newspaper (which endured but never quite flourished) went under. The loss of two graphic designers and a general sense of apathy seemed likely causes. The column, which is merely on this blog and nowhere else, is titled “Down with Santa.”
To further explain my anti-Santa stance, and backpedal on it a tad--since I do enjoy smiling children (especially my nephew) and the causes of their smiles--I decided to do a sequel to "Down with Santa," and this one is not as Scrooge-like because I don't aspire to become too much of a grouch, or—God forbid—an ultimate grouch: a curmudgeon.
It's just that I can't get past the notion of lying to kids in order to give them cheer. That's a puzzling tradition to me, and when I encounter things I don't understand—which is just about everything—I ask questions and crack jokes.
For instance, does part of the fun of Christmas revolve around the fact that kids are gullible? Generations ago, was the mythology started by some rascally dad who fed spontaneous nonsense to his children purely to see if they'd accept it as the truth?
And did he, by chance, talk it over with his wife later?
“Guess what, dear? I told Susie there's a jolly fat man in a sleigh led by flying reindeer who delivers presents to millions of people across the globe on Christmas Eve. And here's the best part: She bought it! Ha!”
I bought the fib, too, but when I found out the truth, I got distraught. It felt like a cruel prank. My seventeenth birthday was ruined.
Just kidding.
Anyway, I realize that kids really get a kick a out of their imaginations, and it's a shame how adults forget what that's like; in fact, that's part of the reason they tell kids about Santa in the first place: to relive that wonder.
And even though I've shown no inclinations for fatherhood in my 20s, I've lucked into becoming an uncle, and I feel a great sense of loving duty for my nephew. The father/ uncle dynamic is as Batman-to-Robin as they come, but any time I'm needed for an assist, I want to be there to fight the crimes this world may have in store for my nephew.
Furthermore, since I'm pretty sure my brother and sister-in-law will indulge my nephew in the Santa mythology, I have no right to be a Scrooge about it. For his sake, I'll go along with the Santa malarkey for as long as required.
I do have a message for him, however, after he has learned the truth—from his parents, friends, self, or whomever. When I catch wind of his enlightenment, this is the message I'll send him.
Hey Buddy,
If you're reading this, that means you no longer believe in Santa. I hope you don't feel disillusioned about it all like I did. Your mom and dad were mainly trying to grant you joy and excitement, to get your mind marveling about this life, and while what they told you was not 100% honest, when you're my age, you'll find that discovering the false nature of Santa is far from the worst thing that could happen.
Now that you know about Santa, I think you're old and mature enough to be let in on a few other fibs Uncle Nick either participated in or started. Are you sitting down, pal? You should.
You know that unicorn stable I've told you so much about but never brought you to? Well, that doesn't really exist, either. Those pictures I gave you from time to time of me on a jet-pack feeding deep dish pizza to my airborne unicorns were photo-shopped. I still think you're very smart, but to be honest, I'm kind of surprised you didn't call “Bull-crap” on Uncle Nick last Thanksgiving.
To come clean about another fib involving air-travel, I don't actually own a gigantic gumdrop hovercraft that disappears whenever I say the magic words. That was not the truth, and I told you otherwise because I wanted you to think I was a really cool uncle. In reality, I generally get from point A-to-B in a Honda Accord.
Finally, I was not captured by leprechauns who spun me around in a swivel chair for hours until they finally believed me when I said I didn't know where their gold was hidden when I acted funny at that family get-together. Truthfully, it was St. Patrick's Day and I got awfully drunk. Heck, aside from the designated driver whose identity I can't recall, we all did. Also, those leprechauns I mentioned are fictional, and the same goes for both dragons and my brief yet lusty marriage to that actress who played the Catwoman...but if it makes you feel any better, the jury's still out on Bigfoot.
Sorry. These fibs adults tell tend to snowball on us all. Please don't be mad at me. When you were a year old, because your cheeks were puffy with flesh and inflated with glee, I took to calling you “Chubby Cheekers.” By the time you were two, though, you got to be so word-savvy and verbal that I had to retire that nickname—out of fear that I might hurt your feelings.
The point is, I had to change as you got older. We had to change. It's all around us and unavoidable, and at the risk of sounding like too much of an optimist, 51% of the time, it's for the better.
You're a lot different than you were when I sometimes called you Chubby Cheekers, but my God, your ample jawline was proof that you were as jolly as Santa Claus, and you're still jolly to me. You so often bring a smile to my face and I can think of no finer way to define jolliness.
And, unlike the gumdrop hovercraft, that's no fib. It's the truth.
Love,
Uncle Nick
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