Jungle Diary: Holiday Update
...And Do You Lie to Your Kids About Santa Claus?
Today is our sweet baby Margaret’s first birthday—not her first Christmas though it does feel that way.
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Last Christmas—for me, anyway—was a blur. Instead of cooking Christmas dinner. which I had sincerely and valiantly planned to do (even while enormously pregnant), I had a baby, which completely overshadowed the fact that we had scored one of the few, scarce, prized butterball turkeys imported into Nicaragua and sold at Pricesmart (Central American Costco), and coveted by all the ex-pats.
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Now, you might be thinking to yourself, Omg, a butterball turkey, I thought she cared about antibiotics and pthalates and her children’s survival, and I do, I really do, but nothing has relaxed me more than living in a country where chaos reigns, everything is broken, and where the relativities of lack, luxury, and privilege are constantly being underlined and rearranged.
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Yes, five years ago, my former self would have (to my shame) scoffed at and scorned a butterball turkey—heaven forfend! Nothing less than an organic, free-range bird will do—but here in Nicaragua, where eating turkey isn’t popular among locals, a butterball an absolute delicacy, and a nostalgic one at that.
One year ago today, I spent the afternoon lounging in the sun by the pool with the kids, singing Christmas carols.
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I went to bed early, but I struggled to sleep. At around one in the morning I woke up to pee (again), but as I was lying there, contemplating the task of hauling myself out of bed and into the bathroom, my baby kicked, an earthquake erupted inside me, and the tidal wave poured forth from my womb.
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I knew then, that our child was on their way, and swiftly. The sensations began immediately. They were delightful, sensuous, warm, and undulating, and I embraced every peak and dissolution. I danced and swayed, unravelling; serpentine. Breathing. And I was very quiet.
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At the apex of the voyage, I transposed my consciousness into the centre of the helix, surrendering entirely to the bliss of life and death and dis-integration. Then I was born again as a mother as our baby passed through the portal of my flesh and into the world (ninety minutes after my waters released). A miracle.
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Margaret Emmanuelle Violet Louise Norris Clark Clark was, from the very beginning (and is now) exceptionally bright, curious, determined, and delightful.
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(And since you asked, Margaret is my mother’s name and her mother’s name—our little ocean pearl, which is what the name means in the original Greek. Emmanuelle means “God is with us”, and of course, we chose it on account of her birth-day, and because one of my favourite Advent hymns is “O Come O Come Emmanuel.” Violet was my paternal grandmother’s middle name, and happens to be the meaning of the name Yolande as well, which is also Greek in origin. Louise is Lee’s mother’s middle name. Norris is my birth-name, and, like her big brother Helio, our first Nicaragüense, Margaret’s official last name is “Clark Clark” because here in Nicaragua, every child, by law, must take both their parents’ last names—and Lee and I have the same one on our passports. Sigh. It’s ridiculous, yes.)
Even after all these babies, the transformation that occurs within the first year of life remains absolutely astonishing to me—maybe even more so now that I’m such a seasoned mother, and I know so well how time surges forward, ruthless and savage in its devotion to changing everything, all the time.
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Margaret walked at eight months and now charges heart-first through life on her fat little legs, brown eyes sparkling, charming everyone in her wake. We all adore her. She is also highly opinionated. On our recent holiday trip to the fancy mall in Managua, we stopped in Masaya to buy her a pair of sandals—she had never worn shoes before but since visits to Managua are really the only occasion on which I insist the kids wear shoes, I figured she should have some too…but when we strapped her in she threw the only real fit of her life, and was so outraged and disgusted that I capitulated immediately and freed her feet once again (Horus, her sixteen year old brother, and an avowed barefoot activist was very proud).
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Last night, we had a dress rehearsal Christmas dinner with the same butterball turkey that has been sitting in the freezer for a full twelve months. I figured if it tasted off we could give it to the dogs, but even though Johanna, our cook, left the bag of giblets inside the bird (despite explicit instructions to please remember to remove them) it was quite delicious. I’m sure this is at least in part thanks to the preservatives and MSG. (For the record, Johanna often gets things wrong, but I’m convinced that’s because Lee’s Spanish is abysmal—almost totally unintelligible, everyone agrees. In any case, Johanna’s foibles are more than made up for by the fact that she is one of the sweetest, loveliest, kindest people we have ever known, and is a blessing to us, therefore we’re always willing to overlook her minor—if frequent— mishaps).
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Today, we’ll celebrate Margaret, and finish decorating our gingerbread house, complete the gingerbread cookies we’ve made for friends, then head out to deliver presents and attend the Christmas eve potluck we’ve been invited to, before returning to eat the second—and considerably younger— butterball turkey that I bought last week, having forgotten about the first one.
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Apart from the joy of Margaret’s arrival and the many blessings that I don’t want to discount, it’s been a heck of a year. Looking back, we moved from crisis to crisis, including one of the most painful and protracted healings of my own life (humbling, to say the least—I wrote a little bit about it here), and more recently, our 12-year old son, Felix, went through a healing that a healing that was so intense, that Lee and I were both afraid that he might die (and I will be writing about this experience too, now that he isn’t dead, or even half-dead, as he was for several weeks). The jungle isn’t for the faint of heart.
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But we’ll set all of that aside for now, because tonight, Santa Claus—the archetype of the kind, wise, safe, ever-reliable patriarch—the pater familias we all yearn for, and the symbolic synthesis, as I see him, of St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, and Jesus Christ himself—will come, as he does every year, to bring gifts and most importantly, tidings of great joy to all mankind.
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I wrote the following essay years and years ago—maybe ten or twelve? I don’t remember—and at the time, it really made some serious waves within the world wide web. But things have changed and culture has fractured so much since then, that at this point, a conversation about how parents might navigate “the Santa Claus issue” seems a bit silly, to say the least. But maybe it’s not…Actually, now that I consider it, becoming a catechumen of the Orthodox church has probably only deepened my sense of affinity for Santa Claus as a paragon of virtue and compassion and as a kind of messenger for Jesus’ message.
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I won't lie to my kids about Santa. They are going to get the straight-up truth.
As a general rule, as much as it’s possible (more or less), I don't lie to my kids at all. There are exceptions, of course, but for the most part, they know when I'm sad, they know when things are stressful, they know where babies come from, and they are fairly in tune with, and aware of the world around them.
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Of course, parenting is a balancing act, and I try not to expose them to anything they're not ready for, as much as I can help it. While I am open and emotionally available and truthful, like every parent, I do, of course, strive to protect them from pain and trauma without wanting to deprive them of the essential challenges that they will, inevitably have to face at some point. I am, I think, overall, a responsible gatekeeper.
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When it comes to Santa Clause, I won't lie to them about that, either.
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Just as my own parents did with me, I will explain to my children that Santa Claus is absolutely, unequivocally, completely real—as real as real can be. He is a Saint, a spirit, a pagan-ey, Christian-ey emblem of generosity, kindness, goodwill, and the protection of children. He is an embodiment (and disembodiment) of comfort, safety, magic, the mysteries of winter, and of hope and warmth in the darkness.
On Christmas eve, Santa will arrive at our house, after the children are snug in their beds (with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads) and he will eat up most of the shortbread and milk that we put out for him, and he will leave a letter for each of our kids describing their talents and wonderfulness and sharing blessings and good wishes for a new year filled with joy, light, energy and peace.
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Along with the letter, there will be a stocking full of oranges, pomegranates and a few small beautiful items: chocolate and a marvellous special gift for each member of our family. (Santa and his elves will also magically clean the house, which I, the mother, will be so SO very pleased with. Thank you Santa!)
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Like every year, my kids will anticipate the arrival of Santa Claus, knowing that no matter how irritated I might have become with them from time to time over the course of the year, Santa loves and cares for all children, and knows that every kid is right, good, and deserving.
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Do I know how Santa physically maneuvers through every chimney, or how he manifests his arrival for children who live in tenements, tents or churches? Nope, not really. Not for me to say. I do help him out though, as much as I can, when it comes to our own home, and the people we know and care about.
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When I was a child, there was never any "talk" about the ins and outs of how Santa Claus organized the implementation of his yearly, monumental task, and there was certainly no dramatic event during which my parents sat me down and told me “The Truth"…because I always knew the truth.
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I can’t help but wonder, when I hear about the devastating trauma that some adults are apparently still nurturing when they “discovered” that “Santa Claus isn’t real” if they were perhaps raised in a cultural environment utterly bereft of mythos or imagination entirely.
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My two siblings and I certainly never experiences any sense of shock or devastation. Instead, my faith in Santa transitioned seamlessly from a literal belief to a metaphorical and spiritual knowing. The real truth is that Santa Claus is palpably real, and made real through us—with us, and in us—by the awesome power of legend and the holy spirit, which is really the stuff of life and truth itself.
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Life is not, I am afraid, fact. Life isn't “science.” Life is empirical ambiguity. Life is nuance. This is the gift. Reality is constant uncertainty and fluctuation within which The Truth nonetheless resides, and if I have learned anything it’s that along with God, Santa Claus is one of the few things that is real in this world in which chaos insanity can, at times, seem unrelenting.
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I was a privileged child in many ways, but when I was growing up, Christmas in our house was never a consumerist extravaganza in our family; it really wasn’t about objects or acquisition.
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I’ll never forget the thrill of walking into the living room that Christmas morning to see lifejackets under the tree—worn by two teddy bears—which will forever be emblazoned on my mind as the best Christmas presents ever. My sister and I put the lifejackets on over our pajamas and wore them all Christmas day, in anticipation of the canoe trips we would enjoy with our parents that summer.
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If I were to ask my seventy-three year old mother today, whether or not Santa Claus is "real,"she would look at me, clear-eyed, and say Of course he's real Yolande. Why on earth are you asking me such a silly question?
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In our family now, Lee and I and our kids enjoy and revel in the many commercial representations of Santa Claus that we see out and about, while at the very same time, we actively pursue a Christmas experience that focuses not so much on corporate junk (though there’s some of that, to be sure), but on celebrating the birth of Jesus and the gift of life itself, family togetherness, delicious traditional foods, Christmas carols, song, story, and giving to others.
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I see Santa Claus as a marker of, and a vehicle for the message of Jesus’ presence and message, which includes a celebration of the beauty and perfection of birth. Made, as we are, in the image of God, every child is born encircled with a halo of fundamental universal adoration, whoever they are, whether of "lowly" or "noble" extraction.
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Birth is beautiful and normal and also sacred. Babies can be born safely in barns and stables and churches and cabins. Birth is precious and wonderful and we are all children who need and warrant the unconditional love of God.
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Christmas can often seem so overwhelming and convoluted, but I think what so many of us cherish most about Christmas is the simplicity of what underlies all the elaboration—it’s really just such a lovely, wonderful time in which child-like awe is available for all of us.
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There has been a real trend lately, towards (rather aggressively, in some cases) promoting idea that we parents are lying to our children about Santa Claus. This, to me, is utterly preposterous—legalistic, humourless, and quite sad. I’m very pleased be able to offer my relatively insignificant (all told) services as a helper to the jolly elf on Christmas eve. I do a little organizing and grunt work, and the rest, really, is up to him.
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I don't really give a darn that some parents may decide to tell their children that Santa Claus is a story, a myth or a lie—we certainly all have our own prerogative to raise our children how we see fit. And even when our kids encounter one of those oh-so-very righteous children whose parents have a stranglehold on The Truth and who feel the need to spread their enlightenment, I’m quite confident that my kids have been inoculated against such nonsense by my radical truth-telling.
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I myself remember coming home one day from school, to tell my mother that so-and-so had said that Santa isn't real. How unfortunate they feel that way, said my mum. But nevermind. Santa is as real as you can imagine.
Your Mom said it all. "Santa is as real as you can imagine."