The Jig is Up: Santa Killed in Toronto
Daphne is 14, Shaggy is 12 and Santa is dead.
It happened last year but I suspect it happened even before that.
Might I take a moment to reminisce…
Santa was alive and well when Daphne asked for a stuffed Franklin the Turtle for Christmas. Santa called everywhere and even scoured eBay. No Franklin was to be found. Santa had the bright idea to call the publisher and find out who owned the merchandising rights. Then he Ho Ho’d the merchandiser who Ba Humbug’d the idea and said they owned the rights but had never merchandised. As Santa was shopping for sewing patterns online (Santa was Oh, so jolly at 8+ months pregnant and possibly nesting), Santa received a call from the toy shop. The elf worked at the publisher’s office and she wanted to send Daphne a parcel including a doll she sourced from the German North Pole. A giant box arrived two days before Shaggy did and it included a Franklin doll, puzzles, movies and books. Santa lived then and quite possibly cried for a week at the generosity of strangers. That publisher was on the nice list for sure.
Santa was alive and well when Shaggy asked, in his letter to Santa no less, that Santa take a selfie in our house on Christmas night. Damn kid. Shaggy even cleared our camera and left it on the coffee table right in front of the fireplace with a little pat and a wink directed at his mother. Santa will not be outdone young lad and never dare Santa! Santa sourced a green screen picture of himself that resembled a selfie, took a selfie of himself in his
pyjamas regular clothes. He then superimposed the picture of himself in front of the family tree. The camera took a picture of the computer screen and replaced it on the coffee table before going out on his sleigh. He downed the glass of wine the kids left instead of milk. Santa lived then.
Then Shaggy finally broke it to me that I am the only person in the house who still believes in Santa. This sucks! I truthfully don’t even want Christmas now because, well, Santa isn’t coming.
I have been pissy since the bomb was dropped. I have been keeping this fraud alive for 13 years and now I have no direction.
“Please can I put reindeer tracks on the roof just this last time?” Shaggy said No.
“Please can I spread soot from the fireplace to the tree?” Mister said Not a Chance. Come on!
“Please can I hire a friend to play Santa and have a picture of Daphne and Shaggy sitting on the creepy stranger’s lap in our home?” My mother said ‘It worked for you’. (Therapy has helped.)
Before NORAD took over, my father used to call
my grandmother Mrs Claus. She would tell me Santa had left the North Pole and I better get to sleep so he didn’t pass the house. I would stand and look out my window knowing I saw the sleigh and run to bed with my eyes slammed shut. “Can I do that?” Daphne just rolled her eyes.
My family doesn’t want me to be Santa. They still want the little gifts at the end of their bed that Santa always put there to amuse them and give Mister and I a few extra minutes of sleep. They still want the stocking jammed too full so there are extra ‘bags’ alongside them. They still want the mystery gifts under the tree that they didn’t ask for, but they don’t want me to have the fun. I might just surprise them this year with a racket in the middle of the night and some very loud bells and Ho Ho Ho-ing and the sound of cookies being shoved in my face by the dozen. Then, maybe next year, they will let me call Mrs Claus so they can sleep.
It’s a plan.
BTW: I am over at Sammiches and Psych Meds this week with my tips on creating the perfect family dinner (it’s a satire piece obviously). Please check it out.