Newsletter from Jay Wilcox - September 2023: On Santa and Such and Such

Good morning/afternoon/evening!

I've long told myself that if I ever had children, I would never lie to them. That is, while I might omit certain truths above a child's developmental paygrade, so to speak, I would never tell them anything false. After all, I remember being a child. I knew when adults were lying--and even if I didn't know what the lie was or what lay behind it, I could feel a disturbance in the Force. I wonder sometimes if this sensitivity to white lies and half-truths fed a lifelong cynicism, a pernicious mistrust of adults and authority that lingers to this day.

That said, I can't wait to tell my daughter about Santa Claus.

As I mentioned in my last newsletter, Hannah and I are expecting a little girl in January 2024, and I'm already planning the ways in which I'll make Santa real, the idiosyncratic details through which I'll insert myself into the myth. You see, Santa's favorite cookie is actually his mom's snickerdoodles, with extra cinnamon--and if oat milk isn't available, he'll gladly take two percent. Cold-brew coffee also works!

I can't remember if I believed in Santa as a child. What I do remember is the synergy of belief and skepticism, a craving for conclusive evidence. With each present, I compared his handwriting to my mother's. What kind of wrapping paper did Santa use? Were his boxes heavier than the others? In this way, our myths got me to pay extra close attention to our traditions, the wonder my family imbued in every Christmas morning. My belief (or lack thereof) taught me to observe--and maybe that's the purpose of the myths we give children. We want them to pay attention. To feel the full weight of their gifts, those otherwise fleeting moments.

My daughter's going to doubt me. She'll grow to question my stories, and perhaps those childhood fables offer a safe space for kids to challenge adults. We want them to be critical thinkers, don't we? If my little girl's going to interrogate me, I'd rather she hone those skills over the logistics of flying reindeer than the reasons she can't eat candy for dinner or play on the roof.

She'll probably still interrogate me about those other things, but the point stands. I want to give her a world built for questioning, made beautiful by skepticism and close inspection. Before I was a strong reader, my dad read Berenstain Bears to me and ad-libbed all sorts of extraneous details, waiting to see when I caught on. The bears had strange, rambling side conversations. They somehow knew the names of our cats. Because of his weird bending of the truth, the story became one I'll never forget.

I hope you've been well. Thank you for reading--and as always, you're welcome to write back.

Infinite Regards,

Jay