‘Tis the Season ... to tell Santa to Stop Talking

With the best of intentions, and plans so grand and adorable that they will surely inspire ALL the families in the entire world, each year I wake up the day after Thanksgiving ready to crush the holidays. Not literally crush, as in kill the spirit of the season, but crush as in conquer, arise victorious, and WIN the month of December. With abundant smiles on my kids faces (from pure, deep, unadulterated joy), compliant behavior (gleefully standing in line to stand near Santa ... I long ago gave up the notion of a lap photo), and kindness and happiness seeping from every pore of our bodies (no eye rolling, snarkiness or sass)—we will show each other near constant gratitude and let the spirit of the season wash over us. There will be peace on earth, and it will start in OUR house. In the season of miracles, we will lead the way. It will be epic.

Except we won’t, lead the way that is, because none of that ever happens. Never. Instead of all that awesomeness, my family falls somewhere between a choreographed Instagram photo, meant to show perfection but filtered and staged, and a crime scene photo showcasing the ugliness of humanity in acts rarely planned but ever present. In truth my life is way closer to the Insta, but some days ...

It’s taken me several decades to realize this, but it seems my expectations get the best of me during the holidays. Every day really. Always have. And I am learning as a mom that expectations are futile. No matter how much I want a certain outcome—like a charming photo with Santa— compliance is not generally the norm in our house. Admittedly it’s my fault, the after-affects of lax parenting, my own laziness, and a general desire to keep the kids alive above a steadfast determination to keep them in line. But while I realize that having children who don’t listen the first time, or even the fifth, is a common parenting complaint—it gets old in a hurry.

Will kids ever realize that one minute of doing what your parents want (or anyone for that matter) will actually save hours of yelling, scorn and tears?! I’m sure the day will come. It has to, right? Or do we really have to wait till they are 25? Listen here kids of the world, I officially declare, “IF YOU SMILE FOR ONE F#%k$*G SANTA PIC YOUR MOM WILL BUY YOU ALL THE TOYS!!!! And let you play Fortnite before bed. And drink Coke all day. And skip a shower!!!!” But no, they won’t listen, they will just continue to dig in, twist our last nerves, and test limits. Because driving your parents crazy is apparently some twisted right of passage. Just like a Santa pic—attitude is a childhood tradition.

So why all this blathering on about attitude and Santa?! Because last Saturday was a mashup between an epic Morality Play and a bad Facebook meme—staring my adorable son. Instead of making good choices my kid slid so far sideways that in one epic holiday fail my sweet 7-year-old was placed on the Naughty List, forever. Why? My generally happy child, with a crooked smile and a kind heart, pursed his lips, furrowed his brow, and with a stern voice told Santa, “STOP TALKING!” This particular Santa rides a train and greets kids before they board, and again inside the trolley. He was kind and took my son’s attitude in stride, offering a wink and a few kind words before moving along. But me, I didn’t handle it so well. Part of me giggled at the absurdity, part of me wanted to crawl in a hole and die, and part of me wanted to pretend he wasn’t my kid. But the part of me that won was the part that sternly told my child he won’t get presents.

Wait!!!!! Whaaaaat?! Who cares about presents?! There was a bigger lesson to be learned, but I was too concerned about my damn photo and my own embarrassment that I barked about presents. I might have even mentioned something about stockings and coal. It was bad.

I biffed it, I totally missed the most appropriate response to witnessing rudeness and a huge lack of gratitude from my child. And to be clear, his rudeness was so egregious it made my cheeks redden. Maybe it was from being so surprised I was speechless, or because I was acutely aware there were families watching and marveling at his remarks, or because I was trying to pretend he wasn’t mine. Regardless, I did not say what I should have said.

What exactly should I have told my child? In hindsight, I realize my response should have been more along the lines of, “Oh honey, I’m sorry the line is long, and that you are cold, and hungry and tired. But buddy, while you can always be shy, and uninterested, or uncomfortable with the tradition of chatting with a bearded stranger about your hopes and dreams—you can always be shy, but you should never be rude. To anyone.” Had I said that, maybe my child’s follow up comment might have been something other than, “what, he’s a fake Santa!?” I can’t really be mad, it was his 7-year old way of telling his mom to get off his back.

All I really wanted was a picture, a captured memory. Because deep in my soul I know parenthood is fleeting, and soon my 7 year son will be a 6’ 7” man with kids of his own, living a life separate from me, in another city and a house with different people to comfort him. I could be wrong on the details—he could live in town, and be shorter than I imagine—but I know for sure he won’t be greeting Santa with me by his side forever. And that is why I was grieving the moment before it was even over. You never know when your last photo with Santa will be, and it hurt thinking his last could possibly be the worst.

I wanted the photo because I wanted a memory. Next time I’ll try harder to live in the moment, go a little more with the flow, and strive not to make things worse because my expectations were not met. I will try. I will surely keep getting it wrong. But I will know I did my best to help the 7, 11, 15, 22, or 40 year old versions of my children navigate life. Because that is my only real job—to lead with the best of intentions. And more importantly, to let my children know, at every age, that they are loved regardless of behavior, decisions, missed opportunities, or telling Santa to shove it. If I can manage to remember to make it more about kindness, and less about presents—especially in those moments of chaos, stress, and embarrassment—I just might have a chance at really winning.

PS: There were better pictures to share, and many much worse that were immediately deleted, but the above showcases the day—me with a sour stare, him with a grimace, and Santa cut out of the shot. Merry Christmas!! May you find peace, balance, and the perfect photo this holiday season.