I remember dragging my daughter to the Santa queue and her dissolving in tears. By the age she was happy to sit on Santa’s knee and enumerate her wishes, she had almost stopped believing in Santa. I don’t remember ever having a photo of my son with Santa.
“He’s not the real Santa. To get the real Santa you have to go to North Pole”, he said once, looking very serious and chubby cheeked. It turned out that the real Santa had trained his elves to impersonate him, because he is just so busy. My son wrote letters to Santa instead. With long wish lists. chattily giving Santa news from his year, not necessarily telling him whether he had been good or bad. “Santa knows, I don’t have to tell him.” He would insist that I put on International mail stamps on the letters. “It is unfair to expect Australia Post to pay for ALL the letters to Santa”. Every February he would read with delight the reply from Santa.
One year he did not send a list, he thanked Santa politely for always replying to him, and for all his presents, and wrote that he would rather give something to Santa and that it was okay if he himself did not get anything. He sent Santa some of his favourite pieces from his own shiny stone collection. He made sure I paid the international price for the small packet, signed the customs declaration himself. The Postal Officer behind the counter was surely a Capricorn, her fastidious soul was so hurt that I was doling out money for such a cause.
“It’s okay, the flat packaging will not break the stones. You do not have to use the bubble wrap.”
“Oh, no there’s no need to put stamps on”
But she looked into my son’s eyes and gave in.
Here is a post from another child, whose blog I love to follow:
I did sing his poem out loud as he suggested. So much fun!