Santa’s identity is revealed

For several years, at the insistence of my eldest daughter, Christal (who has since passed), I place a call to granddaughter, Océanne, impersonating Santa Claus.

I get into the role. Following some hardy Ho-Ho-Ho’s and season’s greetings, I describe in detail the observations of my spying elves - made all the more credible by inside information that her mother would provide.

Océanne, sufficiently convinced of my leverage, in turn makes her gift demands and sweetly promises to stop talking back to her parents – at least until Christmas Day.

These are the terms of the deal: She gets the gift she wants so long as her mom gets a reprieve from the talking back. Fair trade-off.

I loved these negotiations.

But a couple Christmas’ ago the call was different.

Océanne’s father decides to intervene and put his own stamp on the tradition.

It’s my phone that rings. And it’s Océanne on the line.

“My Dad says there’s no such thing as Santa and that you just pretend to be him on the phone…”

Call me gobsmacked… speechless.

You can’t pick your sons-in-law.

I suppose it was inevitable – but the call still leaves me in a Charlie Brownsian Christmas mood.

That is until, while chatting with my younger daughter, Carrie, she reminds me of another Santa story.

You should know that I have a history of masquerading as Father Christmas.

I chalk it up to my extroversion (as opposed to girth). For years I have been asked to suit up and play the role of the white-bearded fellow.

Carrie helps me remember:

We’re at a children’s Christmas party and three of my children are still at that innocent “I believe” stage. My eldest daughter, (Christal - of the blackmailing phone call) however, is on the cusp of Santa-scepticism.

My anxiety is fuelled by the real possibility of her screaming out to the happy little children that there is an imposter amongst them.

It would not be the first nor last time that Christal makes an animated public display.

To mitigate the risk, I stop prior to entering the hall and warn my kids against any outbursts in the event they recognize Saint Nick. The mischievous look Christal gives me with her big round eyes does not reassure.

As always happens at such affairs, 15 minutes prior to the ringing of the bells announcing Santa’s arrival, I excuse myself from the table (supposedly to make a phone call).

Then comes the highly anticipated entrance in full Yuletide pageantry.

When viewed firsthand from the jolly fellow’s perspective, the children’s expressions are rapturous. For most, it’s a delightful mix of awe and joy. For a minority, it’s sheer terror.

The children are marshalled through a winding line for the 3-step (sit-on-knee; mumble-request; look-at-camera) assembly process. I keep a watchful eye upon my clan.

They make their way to the front and Christal outlines her gift demands without outburst or incident. Same for my boys. Santa is quite relieved.

It’s the look that Carrie gives me, however, that is striking. Like her sister, she has big, beautiful eyes. As she sits upon Santa’s lap, they grow to tea saucer size.

Our gazes meet, and I fear that I have shattered her belief in Old Saint Nick.

But, something quite different and a little magical occurs in that moment. Carrie is overcome by her sense of wonder and comes away convinced that her father is Santa Claus.

You can imagine my newfound influence over the poor thing. Like other superhero’s, I make a pledge to use my powers only for good.

But I admit that, for a season, she does pretty well everything I ask – even anticipating my needs - fetching drinks, slippers and reading material.

Santa made sure to bring her a special gift that year.

These days, Carrie is a busy mom herself. She’s got her hands full - to say the least.

“Do you think Santa might call our house?” she asks.

You already know my answer.

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