This post is going to seem like it ends on a terrible, low note. I need to end it here because it's the beginning of SEVERAL other stories, and I want to be able to reference back to this post without necessarily referencing this story.
When I was 7 years old, my parents separated. My mom stayed in the house that she and Dad had remodeled and which likely factored heavily into the divorce. I can't clean house without picking a fight, and they were trying to hang Sheetrock. Such naive; many fool.
My sister and I stayed with Mom, obviously. It was 1982, and 37 years later, it remains the default custody arrangement now. Our yellow-walled, shared bedroom sat at the opposite end of the hallway from the other bedroom in the house, and the one bathroom sat between them. To this day, when I envision a home while reading, the characters are in that home's layout. They are in that bathroom. Those bedrooms and that kitchen exist in every book I've read since the age of 5.
While I remembered being told they would divorce, I don't remember feeling especially upset about it. My mom might remember otherwise; my dad might. I remember anger when Daddy moved out. I remember being given a book about divorce by our pastor's wife while I was at school (in retrospect I don't think she had my parents' permission to tell me, because they were not happy I came home with it). And I remember the Sears Christmas catalog.
I sat in the bathroom one day on the side of the tub pouring over the catalog while Mama flossed her teeth. I turned a page, revealing Glory itself. To my young mind, when we talked about God's glory, it was comparable to this three-story masterpiece of a Barbie Dream House. It had an elevator and furniture. The embodiment of luxury and posh, I knew it was the only thing I wanted or needed for Christmas. Right then and there, I bowed my head and closed my eyes, and I prayed. "Dear Santa ..."
I finished, and looking up, I excitedly told her all about the Barbie Dream House, ending by proudly telling her, "so I said a prayer to Santa Claus so I would get it!"
Mama had raised us in the Southern Baptist Church; such heresy frightened her unspeakably. Mama dropped her floss, and horrified, she explained to me that Santa Claus was an idol. And the Bible tells us we should only worship God and pray to God. Then, quite gently in retrospect, she explained to me that Santa wasn't real. Santa was really my parents. They bought the gifts. They put them under the tree. My parents filled the stockings. The jolly old man whose lap I sat on every year? Just some stranger wearing a fake beard.
It was all. a. lie.
I think I felt more loss over Santa than I did over my parents' marriage, but I was 7, and I couldn't possibly understand the implications of their divorce beyond, "Daddy had to move out." Moreover, they had fought for as long as I could remember. I never had any illusion that they were madly in love or fantastically devoted to each other. Some of my earliest memories are of them yelling at each other. Who got to take Melissa trick or treating, and who had to stay home? Who did what for the birthday party? Why did Mama spend so much? Why was Daddy so mad all the time? They were two wonderful people who were young, flawed, and had no vision for a good marriage. So divorce didn't really destroy any notion I had about love or family or commitment.
But Santa. Oh Santa. I wept. I still feel sad about it. I still catch myself wondering what he'll bring this year THIRTY-SEVEN YEARS later. The fraud of Santa shattered my little world.
When I was 7 years old, my parents separated. My mom stayed in the house that she and Dad had remodeled and which likely factored heavily into the divorce. I can't clean house without picking a fight, and they were trying to hang Sheetrock. Such naive; many fool.
My sister and I stayed with Mom, obviously. It was 1982, and 37 years later, it remains the default custody arrangement now. Our yellow-walled, shared bedroom sat at the opposite end of the hallway from the other bedroom in the house, and the one bathroom sat between them. To this day, when I envision a home while reading, the characters are in that home's layout. They are in that bathroom. Those bedrooms and that kitchen exist in every book I've read since the age of 5.
While I remembered being told they would divorce, I don't remember feeling especially upset about it. My mom might remember otherwise; my dad might. I remember anger when Daddy moved out. I remember being given a book about divorce by our pastor's wife while I was at school (in retrospect I don't think she had my parents' permission to tell me, because they were not happy I came home with it). And I remember the Sears Christmas catalog.
I sat in the bathroom one day on the side of the tub pouring over the catalog while Mama flossed her teeth. I turned a page, revealing Glory itself. To my young mind, when we talked about God's glory, it was comparable to this three-story masterpiece of a Barbie Dream House. It had an elevator and furniture. The embodiment of luxury and posh, I knew it was the only thing I wanted or needed for Christmas. Right then and there, I bowed my head and closed my eyes, and I prayed. "Dear Santa ..."
I finished, and looking up, I excitedly told her all about the Barbie Dream House, ending by proudly telling her, "so I said a prayer to Santa Claus so I would get it!"
Mama had raised us in the Southern Baptist Church; such heresy frightened her unspeakably. Mama dropped her floss, and horrified, she explained to me that Santa Claus was an idol. And the Bible tells us we should only worship God and pray to God. Then, quite gently in retrospect, she explained to me that Santa wasn't real. Santa was really my parents. They bought the gifts. They put them under the tree. My parents filled the stockings. The jolly old man whose lap I sat on every year? Just some stranger wearing a fake beard.
It was all. a. lie.
I think I felt more loss over Santa than I did over my parents' marriage, but I was 7, and I couldn't possibly understand the implications of their divorce beyond, "Daddy had to move out." Moreover, they had fought for as long as I could remember. I never had any illusion that they were madly in love or fantastically devoted to each other. Some of my earliest memories are of them yelling at each other. Who got to take Melissa trick or treating, and who had to stay home? Who did what for the birthday party? Why did Mama spend so much? Why was Daddy so mad all the time? They were two wonderful people who were young, flawed, and had no vision for a good marriage. So divorce didn't really destroy any notion I had about love or family or commitment.
But Santa. Oh Santa. I wept. I still feel sad about it. I still catch myself wondering what he'll bring this year THIRTY-SEVEN YEARS later. The fraud of Santa shattered my little world.
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