Christmas was easy before I had children. All Phil and I had to do was show up at family functions -- or host them -- and fail to mail out Christmas cards in a timely fashion.
Now, however, I have a child and the Santa question looms large.
I had a fairly troubled regard toward him as a child: If Christmas was supposed to be a celebration of the birth of our lord and savior (as I was taught by the nuns at St. Jerome's), then why was the fat man horning in on the action?
Why was Santa never mentioned in the gospels? Shouldn't Jesus be riding shotgun since it's His birthday? Why would Santa be watching us? Wasn't that God's job? Wouldn't things be easier if God and Jesus handled all the presents and let Santa rest? I asked. My parents tap-danced around the answer to those questions until I was deemed old enough to learn that the home-invading Santa Claus was a mythic figure.
And then my question was, Why did you let me believe something you knew was false?