Why do we do it? That’s what I’ve been asking myself this Christmas season. Why do we lie? Fib? Fabricate such a preposterous story as a red dressed, white bearded fat man flying through the air on a sled with eight reindeer at the helm?
Why do we do it? That’s what I’ve been asking myself this Christmas season. Why do we lie? Fib? Fabricate such a preposterous story as a red dressed, white bearded fat man flying through the air on a sled with eight reindeer at the helm? Add in the elves and workshop and chimney with stockings. Toss in some cookies and cognac for the jolly SN, “et voilà”… one massive, magical, misleading myth for good boys and girls all around the world.
No wonder Santa’s got a twinkle in his eye. He’s hoodwinked humanity; well, a large part of it, anyway.
It’s a bit ridiculous, really. As a friend recently said, imagine aliens looking down on earth and seeing all the decorations outside the house, not to mention a tree inside. Envisage all the other absurdities any alien would espy is my retort.
Our older son — who is no longer a believer — shot a sleigh runner through my heart when he said he was disappointed to find out Santa wasn’t real. He ran the other runner through me when he said he was disappointed in us, too, his parents for keeping up the lie for so long. Two disappointments in one Christmas. My Frosty heart couldn’t bear to ask why.
Nevertheless, white lie (and no White Christmas) be damned this year in the Grand Duchy. My wife and I toy soldiered on for our younger son, and our older one was a real Santa’s helper about not Scrooging it up for his brother.
I wish I could say the same when I was a boy. Christmas was always a magical time and I believed till I was around twelve. Who wouldn’t, considering that Santa came to our house every Christmas Eve. But once I found out the truth I quickly turned into the Grinch and stole Christmas from my younger brother. Shame on me for doing that. There’s so little magic in the world – some might say none – as we grow older.
With that in mind, we didn’t let Jack Frost nip at the soul of our 8 year-old. No! No! No! Santa Claus came to Luxembourg once again, and our guy had sugar plums dancing in his head.