Last evening, at approxiatmately 8:17pm, the Howler announced, "Duh. You & Mom are Santa."
The child has been desperately clinging to the myth that Santa is real, probably because she believes that when you stop believing, your gifts devolve into the realm of new socks and underwear, eventually dwindling to nothing.
Last year, she was adamant about polling everyone on their belief in Santa. Not one to lie, I told her I believe in the spirit of Santa. Considering her shaky history with the fat jolly old elf, we should have crossed this bridge ages ago.
In a nutshell, her history with Santa includes, but is not limited to: 9 months old at her first Christmas, she shrieked in fear when walking past the Visit Santa area of the local mall, with her aversion to all things fat, bearded and jolly culminating on a refusal to sit in a Santa shaped stuffed bean bag chair; a few years later when she stopped sleeping for fear Santa would pull a Charles Manson Family inspired creepy-crawl thru our house on Christmas Eve (gifts that year spent the night on the porch); the on-going fear of meeting the fat man in person, up to and including climbing up me like a Sherpa on Mt. Everest; the screaming and crying Christmas photo session at Walmart when the hapless photographer innocently announced, "Let's take your picture with Santa now!"; the near freak out experienced when the Toad, decked out in his brand new fancy Santa Claus suit, walked thru the house. Dude didn't even have the beard on yet because he knew the freak-out over Santa in the house was gonna happen; of the two photos I have of her with Santa, one features the neighbor's granddaughter, as it was the only safe way to get her there (don't let the neighbor kid know your pathological fears is a pretty strong motivator.)
To say I feel not one bit of sadness over this is an understatement. It stopped being fun for me years ago--I think the screaming fit at the Walmart photo booth did me in.
I'm not really looking forward to what has taken it's place, though. She has now adopted the stance of shadowing me relentlessly while asking what we got her for Christmas, and it isn't a whole lot more attractive. (Not that the adamant belief that we're bound to ruin her Christmas dreams by refusing to get her the stupid crap she desperately desires is much better.)
So, my little Howler, there is no Santa Claus. The world will go on spinning, and your parents will still by you good gifts.
