Facing Santa
When my son Jet was a toddler, he was terrified of Santa Clause. He was not a fan of the Easter Bunny (the oversized ones at the mall), the giant Nickelodeon characters at Universal Studios and, of course, clowns.
During the Christmas season, we’d try to get the standard picture with our happy kid sitting on Kris Kringle’s lap… but he was not having it. Jet would cry at the sight of the red suit. He wouldn’t go near him.
At age 4, desperate to let Santa know what he wanted for Christmas and fearing that he would not receive his letter with the requested items, Jet faced his fears and decided to go for it. We stood in line with friends who had a son Jet’s age. Santa was sequestered in a little red house adorned with a fake brick fireplace sporting a roaring fire. There was a window with a view of the snowy north pole and an overly decorated tree with colored lights. The big guy sat on a large chair upholstered in red velveteen with gold trim, leaving enough room for the kiddos to join him.
He was a pretty good version of Santa Clause with his round rosy cheeks, snowy white beard and robust tummy. Our friend’s son went first, fearless, excited and ready to go, he hopped right on his lap without hesitation. Then it was Jet’s turn. He looked wide eyed, nervous and unsure, but he mustered up the courage and walked over to Saint Nick. On his lap, he sat facing forward rather than in Santa’s direction, stiff as a board, legs dangling. When Jet was asked a question, his eyes would briefly glance towards Santa, without moving his head, continuing to look straight ahead. When the questions were over, Jet couldn’t get off Santa’s lap fast enough. Relieved, he came over to us with a victorious smile and we hugged.
I don’t know where my son’s fear of these big costumed characters came from, but I can’t say that I blame him. Even the lyrics to the song about Santa are creepy: “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake...” That’s rather intrusive and stalkerish. I imagine being a little kid and looking up to a giant man in a red suit, a STRANGER, waiting for kids to come sit on his lap and answer his questions. That does not seem normal.
I have pictures of my sister and I with Santa throughout our childhood. I don’t look thrilled to be there, but I did the obligatory ritual every year, dressed in our holiday velvet clothes with white socks and patent leather Mary Janes.
Every Christmas, our family would go to a party at the Bel Air Bay Club hosted by my husband’s TV show at the time. We went for 14 years. Our kids grew up going to this fun, warm, Christmassy event that had a Santa giving out gifts to the kids. Jet watched the other kids opening their toys from Santa and decided to ask me to get him a present from the big red bag without having to talk to The Bearded One. We’d tried the year before to get him to talk to Santa, but he squirmed out of his lap with the arched-back move and almost fell on his head.
We opted to get him his wrapped toy rather than risk injury.
Eventually, Jet realized the benefit of the Santa visit and became a willing customer. He wanted to be sure that Santa knew exactly what to bring on his rounds Christmas morning.
