Ciara Cosgrave | Contributing Writer
As a waitress in a restaurant in the heart of south Dublin suburbia, being used as a bargaining piece in the battle of parent versus child and restaurant etiquette, is something I’ve grown accustomed to. The negotiating can whittle down to ‘Camp Davidesque’ talks. It usually ends in the child admitting to the defeat of the Battle of Bolognaise once the tactic of taking dessert off the table is proposed. ‘Death by chocolate’ is a hardball card played, by expert negotiators like President Ford and myself, of course. However, this time of year heralds not only the Basque of neon lights and the itch of Christmas jumpers, but also a new chip to be played by every babysitter, parent and waitress, apparently? The ‘ Santa play’ as it is so fondly known, is a majestic threat, which plays upon the pure innocence of a child. Every Christmas season, without fail, it subdues them into the offspring of Angel Gabriel himself. Causing them to contravene compacts as blindly as President Bush, in pretty much everything he ever did as President.
Didn’t HAVE Santa in their house, like some sick form of upper-middle class sociological experiment
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With the dawn of December, in the battlefields of three delinquent children shredding two hours’ work of napkin folding into confetti, I knew the time had come. I decided it only right to threaten the unruly group that their childhood icon wouldn’t be coming on Christmas Eve with anything less than coal, if they didn’t ‘settle back’. As I muttered this through a plastered fake smile, the reply I got was unnerving to say the least. The youngest of the three turned and announced stoically: ‘we don’t HAVE Santa in our house’. I couldn’t help but glare in disgust at the parents who smiled nonchalantly back at me. In a haze of Parmesan and black pepper the sickly feeling of being in the presence of the Grinch was hard to shake. Didn’t HAVE Santa in their house, like some sick form of upper-middle class sociological experiment. Reminiscent of the Swedish couple who just decided that their child just didn’t HAVE a gender. Yes, the very concept of Santa is a bit twisted when one looks at it objectively. Conditioning children to believe it’s perfectly acceptable, if not greatly anticipated, that a strange man enter your home in the middle of the night; the same man who has been watching you year round. Nonetheless, it is a memory I would not trade for a year’s supply of death by chocolate.
Everyone remembers their first Christmas where Santa came and the excitement was possibly greater than anything you’ll ever experience as an adult. We all also remember the time we discovered it was all a façade. I was ten. My younger cousin let the cat out of the bag during Christmas dinner. I quietly left the table and wept in the toilet, for several reasons. First of all, that my cousin two years my junior had copped on before me and secondly, that the world was just a little less mysterious. As a ridiculous sixteen year old brat I adopted atheism, purely to irritate my less than religious parents. In a whirl of hormones, I blamed my transition on the emotional trauma I experienced towards the intangible, when I discovered the truth about St. Nick. From a pessimistic point of view, is that why we do it ? Do we instill in children this vision of magic and unconditional giving just to take it away? To let them feel the sting of the real world, like blooding puppies? To let them understand bitterness, to protect them from worse when they’re older? Or do we do it for ourselves?
Let’s face it, without Santa the demise of the Late Late Toy Show would be imminent! The cries of happiness when the Coca-Cola ad returns to our televisions would be a little less musical.
My parents were devastated when we all eventually wised up. It’s only now that I understand why. Seeing that type of joy in pure, unchallenged and unwavering belief is rarely replicated once you grow up. Let’s face it, without Santa the demise of the Late Late Toy Show would be imminent! The cries of happiness when the Coca-Cola ad returns to our televisions would be a little less musical. We probably wouldn’t even dismay at how the Brown Thomas Christmas windows are now ‘chic’ rather than seasonally silly. Life would clearly be unbearable if children didn’t believe in Santa!
Perhaps out of bitterness or trying to let them know what they were missing out on, I left the table saying, “that’s odd he still comes to me”. My not so subtle tip was obviously not returned in any monetary form once the they’d paid the bill. However, I left work that night with a nugget of satisfaction and excitement. Satisfied that I had spread the Christmas cheer, even just a little. Excited that Santa would in fact be coming! My parents found it hard to let go!
