Forget the pudding, it's Christmas crumble

It started when the babysitter told our children she talks to Santa on her way home. I understood the ploy; nothing is more attractive at this time of year than reminding wide-eyed children that Santa and his army of tattle-tale elves are watching, no matter how sinister the implication. (Frankly it’s a wonder more children don’t have nightmares about this. As a child I distinctly remember worrying that every deceased relative was not merely sitting on a cloud playing a harp but also capable of watching me while I changed in my bedroom.) You have to choose wisely since that tangled web of lies we weave can be treacherous. Like all deviations from the truth, once a story line has been set in motion it’s hard to undo. And inquisitive five year olds weren’t born yesterday.

After the sitter left, my daughter began her inquisition. “How come Kay can talk to Santa? Does she call him? Do you believe she really can talk to him? Why don’t you talk to him?” -- and so on, ad infinitum.

With her ears newly attuned to changes in a previously well-oiled story, the five year old started looking for more cracks in our testimony. The next morning I found her sitting under her Elf on the Shelf who was, that particular morning, hanging from the woodstove chimney flue. Her face looked grave. “Mummy, does Small Paul have a tag on his bottom? Is it sewn onto him? What does it say?” Like Adam’s godforsaken apple, this tag threatened to single handedly expose the thundering machine that keeps secular Christmas reinventing itself, even with such madcap new “traditions” as mobile elves. Now she wanted to be picked up to look at the tag. I could hardly refuse. Peering at it together she wanted to know what it said. And suddenly I found myself adding to Original Sin with an elaborate embellishment: this jumble of letters and numbers must be written in Elvish! Perhaps his address - or ours - in case he got lost on his nightly trips to the North Pole? The answer stymied the flow of questions but still had to be shared with the rest of the household, including the sitter, least discrepancies arose.

I wasn’t expecting to be tripped up by the flurry of Christmas shorts hitting the television. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is normally our safe bet, even if Santa seems uncharacteristically grouchy in the first half. Then came the Elf on the Shelf television movie. The collaboration between the Elf book’s creators and the film directors was as symbiotic as a product hawker and an infomercial. For forty minutes, we were treated to thinly veiled explanations of how Santa’s Workshop ships out the boxed sets of books and elves to households around the world. Despite the effort, our children became fixated on the revelation of talking elves that cease to talk once boxed and are revived once named by a family. To even a two and five year old, something didn’t add up. I have now spent the better part of a week trying to change the conversation.

With Christmas Eve approaching, the excitement has been growing with our imminent ride on the Polar Express only adding to the fever pitch. I’m trying to hide the news that another (ostensibly magic) upstate NY Polar Express train recently derailed with children rescued by firefighters and transported back by bus. I didn’t fancy getting into a discussion of why a bunch of flying elves and reindeer didn’t come to the rescue.

In case you think that’s it, there is now genuine concern over Santa’s arrival. Why does he have to come down the chimney? Why doesn’t he come through the door? Does he come upstairs? Can anyone come into our house through the chimney? If so, shouldn’t we leave a fire burning when we turn on the house alarm? So while I prepare myself for the battery of questions that peppers this house from dawn to dusk, I welcome both the arrival and departure of Santa. We have the reindeer food (oatmeal and gold glitter) to sprinkle on the lawn, reindeer moss (which helps them fly), cookies and milk (for American Santa), mince pies and sherry (for British Father Christmas), and carrots for good measure. Letters were sent to the North Pole, the live reindeer camera checked, and Santa’s Christmas video personalized and viewed. So this morning’s revelation came out of nowhere. “Mummy, I don’t think I believe in the Easter bunny anymore.”