This
week, my son-in-law out in Washington is playing Santa Claus for the
kids there (his grandchildren, my great grandchildren). They're still
very little, so we'll see how that goes.
But
hearing about this made me think of another Christmas many years ago
when my dad decided to dress up as Santa at our house. That one, I
can report, definitely did not work out so hot.
Here's
story:
It
was Christmas eve (when we've always opened presents in my family). I
was about 12, my two little sisters, Lorie and Pam (the only ones
born at that point) were like 3 and 2. We had it set up so that Dad
would slip out of the living room at a certain point and go upstairs
and dress up in his Santa get-up. It wasn't a full-fledged, bona fide
suit, mind you; I don't know if there wasn't any available or the
folks just couldn't afford one back then. Anyway, he dressed in a
pair of bright red long underwear, a pair of high-topped rubber
boots, and a Santa mask, hat attached.
My
recollection of said mask, even after all these years, was that it
was a pretty sorry creation. The accompanying picture doesn't begin
to match it. Like I said, money was kinda tight back then so I
suspect it was the best my folks could afford.
Mom
and I entertained the little girls while Dad was getting ready. The
upstairs was accessed by a closed stairway with a door at the bottom.
The deal was, Dad (as Santa) would come down and knock on the door.
Then we'd go through the whole “Who could that be?” bit and send
one of the girls (Lorie, I think, because she was the oldest) to open
the door and see. At which point, Dad/Santa would step out saying
“Ho-ho-ho” … Which was exactly how it went.
At
that point, however, the master plan careened off the rails. One look
at this big stranger in red underwear wearing a ghastly mask and my
two sisters let out screams that may still be echoing somewhere yet
today. They bolted into the arms of me and my mom, howling and hiding
their faces like it was the Frankenstein monster coming after them.
Dad, in the meantime, was frantically trying to get shed of his bag
of presents and pull off that stupid mask, hollering, “It's Daddy,
honeys … Don't be afraid … It's Daddy!” But the howls of the
little ones kept drowning him out for several chaotic minutes.
Finally,
the mask was removed and hidden away, the kids could see it was Dad,
and everything calmed down. There were still presents to open and
that was the ultimate healing balm that saved the evening and helped
turn everything into a Merry Christmas.
Now
... as Mr. Paul Harvey used to like to say … Here's THE REST of the
story:
Remember
me --- the innocent little 12-year-old “helper” to the foregoing?
Not surprisingly, I was often called upon to babysit my little
sisters in those days. Now I loved them very much but, being on the
brink of my teen years and beginning to feel my oats a bit, craving
to be “cool” and having interests of my own to pursue, it should
also not come as a surprise that babysitting didn't exactly thrill me
a whole lot. Plus, truth be told, my sweet little sisters could
be
stinkers and didn't always mind me like I thought they should.
Re-enter
the dreaded Santa Claus mask which, like the aforementioned
Frankenstein monster, was not so easily destroyed. I
knew where it had been stashed. And, I'm not proud to say, pukey
little 12-year-old me wasn't above resurrecting it and putting it to
use …
I
don't think I ever resorted to actually putting it on. But one one
day when the little darlings were acting up, I yanked the mask out
from hiding and waved it at them, threatening
to put it on. That was enough. They snapped to attention and jumped
to Best Behavior like soldiers in basic training. In the weeks and
months that followed, all I had to do was say the words “I'll get
that Santa Claus mask” and I suddenly had two golden children.
Eventually,
though, I overplayed my hand and the effectiveness of the threats
wore off. Plus, as the girls got older, they simply no longer found
the mask so scary. But, for a while there, whenever I was babysitting
I had me some mighty well behaved little girls.
Now
I'm not recommending this --- or any form of it --- as an effective
form of controlling your kids. In hindsight it was pretty mean and I
probably deserved to have had somebody scare the crap out of me for
payback. But, come on, you gotta admit that using a Santa mask as a
non-violent tool to control a couple of sometimes-brats was
quasi-clever and has a kind of humorous side to it, too. Don't it?
The saving grace, I hope, is that my sisters still did (and do) love
me, and for any nasty trick I ever played on them there were also
many hours of love and affection showered on them (and the rest of my
siblings as they came along) by me.
You
forgive me, Lorie and Pam … don't you?
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