Dear Santa,
I know you’re resting, but I wanted to intrude upon your repose for just a minute with an admission: Over the last week, I repeatedly took your name in vain in the most careless ways imaginable.
See, I’m the father of a three-year-old girl. And as the father of a three-year-old girl, I often find myself faced with conflicting impulses regarding discipline. Which issues am I willing to go to the mat over, and which am I prepared to let slide? Sure, the hitting and biting and grumblings of “you’re dead!” are easy calls (it’s all about Zero Tolerance in these instances), but what of the subtler forms of disobedience, those times when action is clearly required, but a time out is overkill? In your name, Santa, I successfully blurred these distinctions over the past ten days, but I’m conflicted about it.
I invoked your ever-watchful eye at the drop of a hat. Ava not eating her beans? “I hope Santa’s not watching this.” Ava fussing when it’s time to get in the car? “I wonder what Santa would think of this behavior. He keeps a list, you know.” Ava running around like a madwoman instead of getting ready for bed? “I have a feeling Santa would frown upon this. He’ll probably skip our house now.”
Please know, Santa, that using you this way made me feel dirty. Ava’s vision of you as a jolly, benevolent old grandfather with a bag full of loot is now tinged with an impression of you as enforcer, as a spiteful, unforgiving fat man in a red suit who’s busily marking his naughty/nice list with a fountain pen dipped in elf blood. I wish I could take it all back.
But, I cannot. And so I conclude by simply thanking you for your understanding. And I pledge to you that Christmas 2008 in our house will be all about putting the Christkindl back in Christmas.
Nice since 1970,
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