Without doubt, one of the bleakest days of my entire childhood was when my old-beyond-her-years, desperate-to-be-a-grown-up sister, sixteen months my junior, finally succeeded in persuading me that the avuncular Laplander, who I held in higher esteem than all others, was actually a distinctly average married couple from the West of Ireland. My parents, basically. And before anyone starts (my parents, basically), everyone is distinctly average compared to Santa Claus; he traverses the globe in a night, for goodness sake. For reasons unknown, my joyless sibling decided that almost-twelve (yes, what of it?) was simply too old to still accept the existence of a fictive being and gleefully set about systematically dismantling my childhood innocence, one beguiling myth at a time. Christmas has never been the same since.
During the week, my sister (the one who isn’t a mean illusion-shatterer) told me of a woman she knows who, exasperated at her ever-expanding letter to Santa, chose to underline the importance of frugality to her seven year old daughter by informing her that her presents were, in fact, paid for and delivered by her mother and not the rotund pensioner in the red suit. Christmas is expensive at the best of times and, as far as I’m aware, this woman is neither JK Rowling nor the wife of a Russian oligarch but way to kill the magic, lady. Clearly of the mindset that a problem shared is a problem halved, the little girl wasted no time in circulating the unfestive news throughout the school playground. Regrettably, as I wasn’t party to the difficult conversations that inevitably ensued between disgruntled parents and disheartened offspring, this festive tale must end here, unfinished, but, wouldn’t you know, I have waaaay more to say on the subject so don’t stop reading just yet.
I’m in no position to cast aspersions on another person’s parenting (I leave the house without nappies!) but this story has left me cold. Why anyone would want to accelerate the journey from carefree, innocent childhood to harried, cynical adulthood is beyond me. You might have guessed that I was inordinately fond of being a child. Unlike virtually all my friends, and my dream-crushing younger sister, I showed zero desire to be a grown-up. Indeed, there are some who’d argue (my parents, basically) that I’ve been admirably unwavering in my commitment to the cause. Gross misconceptions aside, there’s a lot to be said for indulging the wide-eyed wonderment of childhood. Precocious, know-all mini-adults have their charm until eventually, if you’re anything like me, you long to take them aside and implore them to “be a child!! And stop calling your parents by their names!!”
Back to Christmas. I’ll grudgingly concede that almost-twelve might be a tad too advanced to believe that an ageing, albeit highly industrious, master craftsman is capable of distributing hundreds of millions of presents to virtuous children across the world in one rip-roaring twenty-four hour period. Be that as it may, don’t demystify the wonder of Christmas for a still-believing seven year old girl because you want to teach her the value of money. As far as little children are concerned, budgeting is for life (and boring grown-ups), just not for Christmas. By all means, curtail her list but LIE, for goodness sake. Tell her Santa couldn’t possibly fit all those presents on his sleigh. Say he doesn’t like greedy little girls, if you have to. Don’t bluntly blurt out that he doesn’t exist. She’ll find that out for herself soon enough.
MERRY CHRISTMAS! x
Not Your Average Baby 