Christmas notes

Christmas, for whatever reason, is the seat of most of my childhood trauma. I still can't sleep without my feet covered because of an animated film called "The Nutcracker Prince" in which an evil rat queen scurries under cover of darkness, creeping into beds and biting people's toes to call curses down upon their lives.

That was a fun December night in our family. The movie ended and L. and I were so terrified we ended up sleeping on the couch with my exhausted father. Over the years we built up a whole mythical persona for the evil rat queen. We could make deals with her. We could make sacrifices to appease her. But there was always her son to worry about. He was less predictable: the rat prince who, in the film, is later stabbed by the Nutcracker's rapier and drags himself through a dollhouse palace, bleeding from his side and screaming vengeance in a raspy death rattle. Yes, this was a children's movie.

The other thing I'm still working through is the whole concept of Santa Claus. I was a very superstitious child. I knew (intellectually) that certain beings and creatures didn't exist. But at my base, in all belief, I couldn't be so sure. Thus, my scrubbing through our lawn to find four leaf clovers, my obsession with mythologies, my casual gifts of food to the Elder Gods (just in case), and my inability to banish Santa Claus from Christmas traditions.

Wilson children never believed in Santa Claus. We were taught from very young that he was a consumerist pagan myth loosely based on St. Nicholas, a real man who had lived in Turkey or some other place that sounded equally made-up. I remember my mom clucking disapproval at a Santa-heavy Christmas display in a craft store. Christmas wasn't about Santa and it wasn't about presents. It was about Jesus and shepherds and virgins (whatever those were. The answer that satisfied for a couple years was "a woman who wasn't married yet." This would later become very complicated.)

But the vigorous and repeated denial of Santa Claus didn't convince me he was fiction. Instead it told me he was not only 1) real, living, and breathing but also 2) the embodiment of evil. L. and I feared him. He came into our house? Whether we wanted him there or not? Didn't he understand that this was a Christian family and we were only about saviors, wise men and hark the heralds? Santa Claus became a natural force to us, as unfathomable as a hurricane, not to be contained or controlled. A fearsome being.

The years passed. We learned how to spell. We realized "Santa" was an anagram for "Satan." That was the year we decided to turn all the heaters up to HIGH on Christmas Eve. We knew that, traditionally, Santa came through chimneys. We had no chimneys, but we weren't taking any chances.

Still, deep in my heart, I wanted Santa Claus to be real and good. I couldn't bring myself to like the obese Coca-Cola Santa who looked like a whiskey alcoholic on a bender. But I loved old folk art-style pictures portraying him as a tall, lean striding man with a long beard and reindeer-skin boots, a hunting horn at his hip: the Santa Claus based on Odin. This was a Santa Claus I could get behind.

Mostly, I don't get Santa Claus and I don't understand telling your children he is real. I have no background with this and it sounds weird and, besides, children believe things or don't believe them and there's little you can do as a parent to control that. I think I would have given up on Santa early on if I'd been told he was real. As it is, I'm still a little obsessed. The question marks around the nature of Santa (good or evil?) haunt me yet.

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I plan to get caught up on all my advent readings today and tomorrow. I've been slacking. As usual. Jesus just takes such a long time to show up, though. Have you thought about it? A really long time. It's interesting.

Still have some Christmas gifts to buy. I busted out most of my shopping yesterday and there are only a few things to make. It will happen. It will be fine. Christmas isn't until Sunday.