There is O-Nay Anta-Say Aus-Clay!

Seeing that it's about halfway around the calendar to Christmas, it's time to consider the age old question of how one generation shares with the next the real fact of life that there is o-nay anta-say aus-clay!

WARNING: Do not allow your young children to see this unless you want to finance their PTSD therapy for the next fifty years. Not that I would know. Really. I'm fine. 

When I was twelve, my mother heard from other neighborhood mothers that the boy next door was about to blow their cover. He'd been telling all the kids he knew that he could prove there was No Santa Claus. There was no naughty and nice list. Santa was a fake; nothing more than a crafty hoax parents availed themselves of to manipulate and intimidate children into behaving. 

At my age, it was old news but I thought back to a memorable night three years before. I'd been harboring suspicions. Why did my mom and Santa use the same red wrapping paper? How could Santa squish up enough to fit down a real chimney? Why didn't he catch on fire? Why did Santa and my mom both like Danish Wedding Cookies? And why didn't everybody get the same amount of presents? I was about to crack the case. 

That Christmas Eve when mom peeked in to see if I was asleep, I faked it good. I was marvelous; could have won an academy award. When I heard the front door creak open, I hopped up and balanced wobbling on the foot of my bed where I could peek out the high window, the only one facing the street. My heart was pounding, thinking if there really was a Santa and I got caught spying, there might be coal in my stocking. Relief and disappointment overcame me when I saw dad walk to the car, pop open the trunk, and carry big, stuffed trash bags into the house. The elves did not pack gifts in Hefty bags. It was true. My parents were Santa. 

So mom decided to tell us, or more accurately, to have our father tell us. Mom's not inclined to talk about anything potentially upsetting. We still haven't had that mother/daughter talk about becoming a woman. Really.

One evening in the kitchen after dinner, the bomb was deployed. My brother David, 6, and sister, Sandy, 9, had moved into other rooms but since our house was the size of a refrigerator box we were still in close proximity.  Mom commanded my dad to tell us. "Ralph, tell the kids there's no Santa Claus," then she added with emphasis, "but be gentle." 

Dad was the kind of guy who'd smile and say, "Yes Ma'am," then do whatever he pleased. He didn't bat an eye or miss a beat. Meandering toward the bathroom he shouted, "Hey kids, guess what? There ain't no Santy Claus!" 

And the wailing began. My poor siblings were devastated. They cried loudly with mouths open wide, like they'd fallen off their bicycles and skinned both knees.  Mom, frustrated and angry at Dad shouted, "I told you to be gentle!!" We tried to console the inconsolable.

I thought my parents should have told us each at a designated age, and that's how I planned to do it when I had children. It was a happy surprise that my children are both the same age. I cheerfully figured I'd tell them together and only have to do it once. In the spirit of my mom, however, I secretly hoped they would hear it through the grapevine thus erasing my obligation. 

Fast forward about thirty-five years. My kids were eight or nine years old when the Tooth Fairy neglected to leave money under Marisa's pillow. As the kids were getting in the car for school, she starting talking. The Tooth Fairy was a bad, bad lady. The Tooth Fairy forgot about her. My little daughter was offended and infuriated. Her guilty dad, who was supposed to have left the money, made the split-second decision to tell her the truth.  Bad idea. Not as bad as my dad yelling, "There ain't no Santy Claus," but bad all the same. 

He told her plainly that there was no Tooth Fairy; that he had forgotten to put money under her pillow.. The Tooth Fairy was a mythical creature, made up, not real. Only Marisa wasn't buying it. Her pretty little button of a face twisted into a mask of rage. She shouted at her dad, "There's is too a Tooth Fairy. You're just trying to cover for her!" 

The Tooth Fairy was a loser and her own dad was taking up for the her. How could he! 

Marisa's brother Julian had quietly absorbed the episode and now waxed logical. The gears were clicking away in his Spock-like mind. "If there's no Tooth Fairy...." he began. 

I tried to changed the subject. Redirect. Anything. "Hey, you want to eat at the Aquarium tonight? I hear the tilapia is great!" 

"Then there's no Easter Bunny," Julian said.

It was no use. I'd more easily stop a runaway train. I coughed the syllable, "Hush!" then resorted to the language oft spoken by Barney Fife, Pig Latin. 

"Ix-nay Anta-Say! Ix-nay Anta-Say!" I begged.

"And if there's no Easter Bunny...............there's no Santa?" ''

The question hung in the air. We all knew the answer. It was loud and clear in spite of my frantic efforts to end the line of reasoning. My little scientist kept right on talking. He was proud of himself. He had solved the equation. 

Julian had been suspicious since he removed half of Santa's beard at the mall on picture day and got thrown out of the fake North Pole by overgrown elves. At last he knew for sure.   

Marisa, on the other hand, didn't weigh in on Santa's existence because she was far too angry at the Tooth Fairy to think about anything else. That was nine years ago she's still on poor terms with the T.F. only now she has learned from school much worse names to call her. She knows what mythical means, understands the term, "mythical creatures," and has adapted to life without Santa or the Easter Bunny. But the Tooth Fairy... if that creature ever dares to show herself around here, she'd better watch her back so Marisa doesn't pull her wings off. 

So that's our story. Your turn now. How did it go for your family?