I Don’t Believe in Santa

It hasn’t happened yet, but sometime in the next couple of weeks, I will have my inevitable, unavoidable argument with someone about whether or not parents should lead their kids to believe in Santa Claus. It always seems to come out in some Christmas-time conversation that my kids never believed in Santa, which is always followed by an aghast reaction and then a muted or not-so-muted suggestion that they have lived an incredibly deprived life and that their parents are, at best, irresponsible and, at worst, sadistic.

When I was a child myself, I never believed in Santa Claus either. I distinctly remember a conversation with another kid in kindergarten, when, after a few rounds of “is not,” “is too,” I taunted, “How do you think that big fat guy gets down that little skinny chimney? Have you ever seen how small those things are?” The Santites are a crafty lot, however, and he immediately came back with “MY parents leave the BACK DOOR unlocked! Hrmpf!” The audience was satisfied and I had to slink off knowing that I was right and that the reviewers were idiots (foreshadowing a series of such events that define my academic career).

Now, I’m not as anti-Santa as some people. This site, for example, claims that it is a sin to idolaterize (sic) Santa and that Santa is a meaningful anagram for SATAN (fun stuff, brought to you be the same nut cases who think playing Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust backward reveals the hidden message “Decide to Smoke Marijuana”). And, there is a somewhat more understandable movement against Santa in Europe as an American import that encourages the commercialization of Christmas (the source of the picture above).

I actually enjoy the story of Santa and recognize it as a fun part of Christmas just like Rudolph, Mistletoe, Stockings, you name it. But I like to keep it recognized as part of the realm of fable, rather than encouraging my kids to indulge in this fantasy. But why?

First, I don’t want to lie to my kids about it. People never want to hear it called a lie, but let’s face facts, it is. And in the kid world, Santa and Christmas are a BIG deal, and so the lie is actually a pretty big one.

Second, there is the inevitable disappointment, more or less traumatic depending on the kid and the context, of finding out the truth—perhaps in an embarrassing discussion at school where you find out you’re the last to realize the truth, or some other not-so-great way (just ask around—it won’t take you long to find some deeply-remembered emotional shock among your friends). Most people argue that this isn’t really that big of a deal, and that it is worth it to observe the childish wonder during the early years. But I don’t see any difference in the excitement and joy kids experience at Christmas among those who do, and those who don’t, believe in Santa. Furthermore, when I’m talking to people, I start to wonder if they are doing this for the kids or for themselves.

Third, when I receive a gift, I’d like to appreciate the person who got it, picked it out, or made it for me. The thanking and appreciation is the best part of the gift giving ritual for me. When I was growing up, my parents really had no money, and they had to struggle and do without so many things so they could get us Christmas gifts. I’m very glad I got to thank them for the presents instead thinking some guy at the North Pole was rewarding me for being good.

Fourth, I absolutely hate the fact that Santa is such an unfair, discriminatory bigot. My kids realized at a very young age that rich kids get more toys at Christmas than poor kids. Either Santa is a big jerk or rich kids are just better. These are not messages I want send to my kids.

Despite my life-long denial of the Santa, I don’t think it has damaged my appreciation of Christmas one bit. In fact, I think you’d have a hard time finding someone who enjoys the Christmas season more than I do. So I say, keep putting out the cookies and carrots for Rudolph—it's fun! I’ll be doing it this year, just like I do every year. But don’t be afraid to admit that you’re doing it as a fun ritual, not because anyone but Dad or Mom is actually going to eat them.