When my father told me there was no real Santa, I cried, a lot. I didn't cry because I was surprised or felt particularly lied to. I knew long before he told me that there was no Santa, but I wanted to go on living in that fantasy world. I felt betrayed that my parents, having once started the charade for my benefit, weren't willing to continue to perform for me in perpetuity: never breathing a word of the truth, staying up all night on Christmas Eve for the rest of my life, leaving presents for me and my children and grandchildren, and bequeathing their life savings to a Santa service to continue the project after their death.There have been times since my husband has come clean about his sex addiction that I have felt just the same way. Why couldn't that fantasy be real? Why couldn't a person like the image I had of my husband really exist? Someone who treated me like a princess. Someone who never argued or disagreed with me, not because he was a codependent people pleaser, but because our every view and feeling was in such perfect harmony. Someone who truly believed that I was the most beautiful and wonderful woman in the world. Someone who cheerfully did everything I would wish and more. You mean my every wish can't effortlessly be fulfilled? You mean marriage is work? You mean someone was working with all of his energy, all night long, to create the illusion of magic for me? What? How dare that be true!
When my husband's father told him there was no real Santa, he felt betrayed and lied to. He had his doubts about Santa years earlier, but when he asked his father, "Is Santa real?" his father replied with a resounding "Yes, Santa is real." So, in those intervening years, he staunchly defended Santa, because his father would never lie to him.
I was lying in bed one morning, years ago, as my husband was getting ready for work. I used to listen to him muttering in the shower, cursing to himself, he said, about work. But I always used to wonderful if he was in there thinking of other women. I don't know why, he seemed angry and stressed and disgusted, but something about it felt sexual, even though that didn't make any sense to me. As he got dressed, I said, "Honey, is there someone else you're attracted to? Is there someone else you want? I just... Something seems weird." And he said, still getting dressed, "No." "Are you sure there isn't anyone else, because you're looking away." And he walked up to me, stood by the bed and cupped my face gently in his hands, looked me directly in the eye and said, "I don't love anyone but you. I don't want anyone but you. I'm not attracted to anyone but you. You are my whole life, and I would never, never do anything to hurt you." And I figured I must be the paranoid one, because my husband would never lie, certainly not right up to my face like that. No way.
Santa is a fantasy, and I don't want any more fantasy inside my house. I want reality and truth. I want my children to recognize and appreciate the beauty of what is, not long for what can't be. In my experience and my husband's, Santa can make you doubt your own perception of reality, choose between what you feel to be true and what people tell you is true. I want my children to know that I will try to help them find their truth and try not to impose my own unreality on them. And seeing all that was when I kicked Santa out on his fat ass once and for all.
My daughter just turned four and doesn't remember much of Christmases past but has heard a lot of Christmas myth from friends at school. A few weeks ago, she was clamoring for a Santa hat and asked me, "Is Santa going to come to our house?"
"No, sweetie," I said, "Remember? Santa's a character in a story, like the Cat in the Hat. He can't really come to our house. But you'll still get presents on Christmas; we'll all get each other presents."
"Ok," she said cheerfully, donning a Santa hat, "Can I still get this hat and dress up and give gifts to you and Daddy and brother?"
"Absolutely," I said and got her the hat. So, maybe in his own way, in a real way that we're all comfortable with, Santa lives here after all.
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