Christmas Story #1

I remember the mixed emotions I had in my heart when my kindergarten classmate told me that Santa Clause was going to bring her a barbie for Christmas. I knew that Santa Clause wasn't gonna bring anything to my house! (And not because of money issues). I do not quite remember what my parents had told me about Santa Clause, but I do remember the conclusion I came to in my own little girl's mind:

Santa Clause was really just a man dressed in a suit. He was the owner of a toy company and he wanted to sell more toys so that he could make more money. He'd figured that if children whined to their parents about getting some toys, the parents will buy them. So he dressed in a colorful suit and sang cute little songs and made lots of advertisement so that children would want his toys. His greed was the driving force of Christmas.

Yeap! I had figured him out!

Of course, I did want those toys. And of course, I would not get them. My only other option was to unmask him so that I would not be the only miserable one. The conversation that followed went something like this:

Me (annoyed): Santa is not the one that gives you the toys! He does not exist!

Classmate: Yes, he does! I believe in him! He will bring me my Barbie.

Me (yelling) : He is not the one that gives you toys! It is your parents! They buy the toys with their money! They are lying to you! It is them!

Classmate (now yelling): No it's not!

Me (louder still): Yes, it is! You're parents are lying to you! They are the ones that sneak up at night and put the toys under the tree!

By now my classmate was crying. I had accomplish what I wanted: to use my self-righteousness so that I would not be the only miserable one. Except that now I was also feeling a little bit guilty (just a tad bit).

I am now pretty impressed at my own capacity to unmask consumerism at such a young age. I am also dismayed at the fact that, even though I know in my head what drives the 'spirit of the season', I get lost in the anxiety of the numbers in my check book. I find myself wishing I could give my sons the house I think they deserve; the mattresses their backs need; the organic food; the private lessons, the list goes on and on.

...swimming in parent's guilt! Darn it St. Nicholas! why does it have to be so difficult!