Confessions of a Serial Santa

One benefit (downside?) of my parents high level of church involvement is that it gives my mother access to a Santa suit.  And there is only one way that my mother having access to a Santa suit will end ------> with me playing Santa at the church youth program.  I believe that tonight was the fourth or fifth time I have done so.  I'll level with you: the Santa suit is mine for all intents and purposes; living in my house all year, taunting, lurking, waiting.  Now, without further ado, some thoughts on playing Santa:

1. The suit itself isn't bad, kind of like a mildly furry, one size fits all sweat suit.  I would gladly wear it out in public, repping the Santa life.  

 The problem is the beard, dear God, the beard.  

It's scratchy, every breath comes with the bouquet of synthetic hair, and stray strands are constantly finding their way into your mouth.  Even better, children can (and do) grab on to it.  Lovable scamps.  

2. I don't get paid for this.  The first year my mother slipped me a twenty, every year since I've done it because it was expected.  The strong nuclear force is the strongest known in the universe; gravity can act across an infinite distance; but in affairs of human behavior a mother's guilt is supreme.

3. I get ready at home, not at the church, and driving across town in full Santa gear is surreal every year.  I honestly feel like I'm heading to rob a bank, not inspire America's youth.  

4. Toddlers are the best.  Infant infants are usually asleep and don't care.  Babies are terrified by Santa; they bawl and wiggle while their parents hasten to take a photograph and I smile uncomfortably.  Older kids know you're not real, and sometimes even know who you really are.* When asked what they'd like for Christmas they'll give you a list of 13 things ranging from a trampoline to an Iphone.  But toddlers, toddlers take you at face value.  "Here is a nice, bushy-faced man who is giving me things, I like him."  I filled in at the local head start on Monday, handing out story books that the staff had purchased.  3-4 of the toddlers not only wanted my help in unwrapping their books, they insisted that I read it wIth them, crowding around me from all sides. I can say it's the first time in my Santa career that my heart was warmed.

5.  Photos.  Photos. Photos.  Tonight alone I was photographed with a few week old baby girl in my arms (awwww),  250lb man on my knee (wouldn't you know the camera would malfunction at that just that moment), and everything else in between.   You smile your biggest "shine through the beard" smile and throw out "Merry Christmas!" to the point you can't take it anymore.  On the third or fourth photo with that particular child you switch to "Yay us!" or "Life is beautiful!"  Or "tuna fish sandwich!"  It doesn't matter.  You just hope the child looks at the camera, gives an expression approximating that of happiness, and their parents are satisfied.  NEXT.

Every year I dread it, and every year it's not that bad.  20 more years or so and I may actually come to like it (shudders).

*Note: it doesn't help when your own mother, one of your assistants, refers to you by name.