“Don’t come into the attic, I’m wrapping Christmas gifts,” I shouted to my youngest child last December, awaiting her response. She’d recently turned 11, and in my heart, I knew she no longer believed in Santa.
“Mom! Don’t forget, I want Monopoly,” she casually called back.
I scrunched my eyelids together, holding back hot tears. Santa, the only arbiter of Christmas gifts in our household, was also the magic link to my Italian Catholic childhood for me and for my Jewish children, whom I’m raising in my husband’s faith.
Even though my kids go to synagogue and have been bar and bat mitzvah’d, it was important to me that they celebrate my Christmas traditions with my family, and Santa has always been an integral part of the holiday.
But now, my worst fear was confirmed. Without having to ask her, my daughter communicated that she realized St. Nick didn’t exist in her world any more. I was left to wonder how our family would keep the holiday sparkle, my Christmas tradition, alive if Santa’s magic had been put to rest.
My heart ached
Sure, Christmas would be easier now that my baby was wiser, but a dull ache still enveloped my heart. Knowing I was turning 50 in early December added to my melancholy.
Part of the reason why I continued the Kris Kringle tradition was that watching my children blissfully tear open presents reminded me of my own childhood excitement, which was especially high the year I turned 8, when a brand-new tape recorder and microphone gleamed under the tree. I remember that magic, and wanted my children to keep feeling it, too.
Now that Santa had vanished from our Christmas celebrations, I felt like I was left with a meaningless pile of boxes to wrap, a slog without his enchantment. I wished for a “Back to the Future” moment, one where I’d revisit my childhood for just one day.
Instead, my night sweats, coupled with the shock that my face (amongst other body parts) was inching downward, caused me to wonder, “Am I closer to where I’m going than where I came from? Will my children channel Santa when I’m gone?” I’ll admit, it was all very dramatic.
I wanted to add something special to our celebrations
As the first week of December approached, I flipped through a childhood photo album, hoping, once again, to relive my youth. There, I saw a picture of myself with the recorder and microphone that I remembered so fondly. That’s when my inner child whispered, “karaoke,” as I looked into an imaginary spotlight, and I made jazz hands.
Later that month, I rang in my 50th birthday with friends at Baby Grand, a karaoke bar in New York City. High on the vocal vibrations of the night, I Amazon-primed a karaoke machine to my house as a birthday gift and pondered my annual Christmas Eve gala. I thought singing might make it a more cheerful occasion now that Santa wouldn’t be getting the spotlight.
“I’m serving seven fishes, but not gefilte,” I joked, as I invited my extended Jewish relatives to join our Italian festa, something I’d never done before. I hoped my cousins wouldn’t be offended that I’d turned our annual Christmas gathering into a Broadway-like musical. I also worried that my three kids, aged 11 to 19 at the time, would be so embarrassed they’d refuse to participate.
A new Christmas tradition emerged
That night, I tossed my hair like Janice Joplin and belted out, “Busted down in Baton Rouge,” a line from one of my favorite tunes. The crowd was quiet, so I opened my eyes and took a breath. Then, everyone woo-hoo’d as I crooned the rest of “Me and Bobby McGee” and bowed. Then my cousin and his fiancée started “Sweet Caroline.”
My kids’ beaming smiles radiated joy, not embarrassment. For a moment, while they clapped and we harmonized together singing the line, “Good times never felt so good,” I was a kid again, and the Santa vibes surrounded us as a new tradition was born.
This year, I’ll bust out the karaoke microphones again, lure my Dad to the stage with a little Frank Sinatra, and ply the Jewish side of the family with extra eggnog in hopes that they’ll all indulge my new tradition again. I can’t wait.
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