I Am So Popular: Santa Claus My Ass

To study lying children, some “experts” put kids in a room with hidden cameras, placed a toy behind their backs, made them promise not to peek, then left the room. Upon returning, they’d ask if the kids had peeked and, big duh, a lot of them had (which of course the researchers already knew from their secret observations) and a lot of them denied that they had looked. The kicker for me came in a sidebar advising parents how to encourage the truth. One suggestion: “Don't set up children to lie. If you know they committed a transgression, don't ask if they did it.”

So, okay, yet another example in which adults fuck with kids, totally set them up, and then get on their cases for falling for the bullshit, then advise us not to set them up. Really, is it ethically sound to put kids in a situation in which they are deceived into being deceptive? And if they’d been told about the hidden camera, would that have changed the outcome?

One of my classmates stopped, mid-stretch, and made a simple statement. “If you want kids to not lie, you need to not lie to them.” He paused then added, “No Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny…”

My irritation at the content of the article waned slightly as I jumped in to second his motion. I hate Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I’m sure some people thought I was a cruel parent for not trotting out these myths. And yes, there was the time when my son was maybe three or four, when he approached me and said, “Look, Mom, I know there’s not a Santa Claus, but could we just have him this year?”

Now, I did not—unfortunately—manage to totally escape the trappings of some major holidays. So even though I refused to deceive the kid into thinking mythical creatures existed, only to admit later it had all been a crock, I did break down some years, gave him some gifts and an occasional chocolate bunny in the name of celebrating holidays rooted in a religion I didn’t buy into. (Hypocritical? Probably. In my defense, I think it takes a couple of generations to evolve. Here’s hoping if I ever have grandkids, they will completely escape such rituals.)

Beyond fending off the fat elf and the diabetes inducing rabbit, I had my hands full as I strove to shield my child from a world full of lies-adults-tell-kids. I maintained the stance that if he was old enough to ask a question, that question deserved a truthful answer. Now, I don’t think this means one need delve into over-explanation and nitty-gritty details. But avoidance of truth in the interest of avoiding discomfort on the part of the adult is not okay. Rationalizing that this is avoidance is “protecting the child’s innocence” is just another lie.

Example: to counter balance my father, who used to drive us kids around in a car wrapped in anti-abortion slogans (though we had no idea what abortion was), I liked to plaster my own car in pro-choice stickers. When my kid was maybe eight, he asked me what the sticker meant. I chose my words carefully, but did not make up some crap. His next question, “Did you ever have an abortion?” My answer: yes. Did this freak him out? If so, it’s a trauma he’s hidden quite well for a dozen years now.

But there was a problem with this truth telling of mine, one that found me being uncomfortably complicit on some level with other parents and teachers who felt just fine with regularly misguiding children. Often enough, I’d find myself telling Henry some truth, and then adding this verbal post script: “Look, honey, not all the kids know this, so if you go around school repeating the truth, it can cause problems, so we probably need to keep this one to ourselves.”

This discretion worked both ways, and at least on some counts, the kid concurred with my suggestion. I’ll never forget the day one of his friends chatted excitedly about Santa Claus. Henry shot me a look that I took to mean, “Do NOT ruin this for him, Mom.” And I did not. While I wanted my kid to always know as much of as many truths as possible, I never thought it my role to force this belief on others, just as I did not approve of others foisting their beliefs on him.

Funny— now that he’s a young man, my son has made choices to shield me from the full truth. I’m not talking about lying. I’m talking about timing. During SXSW, for example, his band headed down to Mexico for a disastrous music festival in Monterrey. I tried to dissuade him. I failed. He waited until he was safely back to tell me the details, how his friends were robbed, and the terrifying condition of the bus and driver hired to ferry bands across the border. I think his goal in waiting to inform me was to prevent me from racing down there and trying to rescue him. (Which, possibly, I might have done and, as an aside, let me say FUCK YOU TODD P for lying to all those bands.)

I’m not sure why so many parents, like the researchers I cited above, think it’s just fine to liberally sprinkle mistruths upon their children as a matter of course, and justify this behavior as acceptable parenting. That they do this while simultaneously demanding their kids always tell the truth puzzles me still further. We warp our children daily, then wonder why they grow up so warped.

Which, in a roundabout way, brings me back to the lie I told the other day. I was in the locker room of the East Communities Y, having just finished my daily swim. Enter a pinched woman, who asked me how the water was. “Fine,” I said.

“Is it clean?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. She then went on to talk about how the pool did not meet her standards, how the locker room often has smashed Cheetos on the floor, etc.

The more she whined, the more I detected a theme— every complaint she lodged related back to a clear dislike for kids. Worse, it was clear she wanted me to agree with her. I wanted to say, “Hello, bitch? Uh, we are at the East Communities Y? The one that features a water playscape AIMED AT KIDS.” If she wanted to swim at some child-free facility, she couldn’t have picked a worse location.

I tried to wait her out. She blathered on. I wanted to offer my truth— that kids are fun, and that it’s great they have a place to play, and that I don’t give a fuck if I step on a Cheeto— who cares? Finally, I said, “Doesn’t bother me, I grew up in a house full of boys.”

That’s not at all what I meant. What I meant was, I raised a child, and he often had his friends over, and I could not have cared less that they made noise and messes. I loved the joyful chaos. I miss it now. I am thrilled when they come back to visit, bunches of them, young adults now, and I get to feed them, and they sprawl out all over my house like the good old days.

But I knew she wasn’t interested in my opinion. She just wanted to spew her hate. So I didn’t bother correcting myself. I exited, sad that she lives with a daily lie she’s convinced herself is true— that kids ruin everything. Probably something she learned when she was little.

Spike Gillespie dares you to tell your kids the truth always. She blogs for JetBlue, KnitBuzz, and her own damn self.