The Santa dilemma

A good friend, Gaia, and I were talking the other day about Santa and how she had told her children aged 6 and 8 that he didn’t exist. I was shocked (she’s a very open-minded person but very spiritual), I asked her if it was because it clashed with her Catholic beliefs. She laughed and replied that her parents had been very strict and had ruined Santa for her when she was young. She in turn had inadvertently ruined it for her younger sister; her sister had never forgiven her! Gaia then told me her story.

When she was about 8 years old Gaia was very naughty, as 8 year olds are. Her parents told her that Father Christmas was watching and if she carried on with her badly behaved ways Santa would bring her nothing but a stick to smack her bottom and chillies to put in her back-chatting mouth. Christmas morning came around and little Gaia sneaked down to the Christmas tree, what did she find propped against it? You guessed right… a stick with a string of dried chillies tied to it and nothing else! Gaia being the tough little girl that she was decided to hide the evidence and pretend that Santa hadn’t come.

Her parents came down from the bedroom and immediately asked where the stick and the chillies were? Gaia lied and said that Santa hadn’t brought them anything. Her parents then of course said that he had and N figured it out! She yelled at her parents that the only way that they could have known about the stick with the chillies on it was if they had put it there and that meant that Father Christmas didn’t exist. Gaia’s parents agreed and so the dream died for Gaia. Her little sister was standing nearby and heard it all, two dream murders in one morning.

The conclusion being that Gaia decided never to use the lie that is Santa to blackmail her children (that includes the tooth fairy, Easter bunny, etc.). She’s very implicit with them that they shouldn’t ruin it for any of their friends who do believe but the not so subtle eye rolls that they give when someone mentions Santa give it away to we who are in the know.

My children believe in as much make believe stuff as I can get them to and I can be very creative when it comes to explaining anomalies that they may find. I think that the longer they can believe that there are purely good beings that always have their best interests at heart the better. There is too much violence, anger and bad stuff in the world already, what harm will a little imagination do? Some of my fondest memories are of my sister, brother and I hiding behind a dividing wall in the lounge waiting for Father Christmas to arrive. We never saw him of course but the thrill of the hunt made us try every year. Then one year, I don’t even remember which, we stopped believing. Pity really.

'Tis the season to be wrinkled'

It’s that time of year when maids and gardeners migrate to their homelands. The places they send their money to every month, to mothers who look after grandchildren so that a salary can be earned. Or to finish the house in their homeland that they'll only live in during the holidays or when they retire to look after their children’s children.

We don't appreciate them when they're around. “Where the hell did she put my little grater? I always put it here!” I say, getting more and more upset as my fingers flip over utensils I only used twice (like that olive pipper I really, really needed) and then a sheepish “Oh here it is.!” when I find it right where is should have been the whole time. That’s when I send out a little sorry into the universe for being hasty with my criticism of my hard working tolerant helper.

So Christmas time rolls around and I drop her off at the taxi rank with her 13^th cheque, the kids yell “Bye! Merry Christmas!” I drive away and the realisation sets in, I'm going to have to do the ironing, vacuuming, toilets and pots for the next four weeks. I calculate how long we can last without my doing the laundry. Will my husband do that old student trick of wearing jocks one day and then turning them inside out and wearing them again? Maybe I can teach the boys to 'go commando'. OK so hubby will never go for that, the kids… well they probably will.

Laundry day arrives, the washing is done and the pile of clean washing looms in front of me. My laziness makes me think about ways around my dilemma. I know from experience that folding shirts neatly, packing them into cupboards and wishing the wrinkles away will not make them silky smooth when I take them out to wear them. I usually use the tumble dryer to refresh the kid’s clothes and then fold them, so in my desperation I try it with our clothes too. A word of advice, jean wrinkles can't be removed in the tumble dryer so those I'll have to iron. I take them out and fold them carefully; an extra crease made means one that I'll have to force out later. The t-shirts come out all right, a little bumpy but not too bad. Oh well, maybe no one will notice if I only go out on overcast days and stay in the shadows.

Yesterday I had to go to the gym and of course, no ironed t-shirts left over, I’d gone through them all, even the one that has the hole in the side that I can sorta tuck in and hide. I chose one that didn’t look too bad and ventured out, super aware of how I looked but hoping that most people were on holiday or too much in the holiday spirit to notice. It was there in the gym that I started noticing all the other wrinkled t-shirts and sweat pants everybody else was wearing. I no longer feel alone, I belong to a sister and brotherhood of the maidless and wrinkled.