Santa

The image that came into my head

" I was wondering if u would play santa at my parents x-mas eve at 5pm. It's easy only takes about 20 min we have all the stuff for u ... Let me know. Thanks"

That text message from daughter-in-law Mariah didn't exactly come out of the blue. Daughter Anne had told us she was disappointed that her husband Jonathan had come up with an excuse for declining Mariah's request to help her family with the annual tradition. With Jon's size, that of an NFL linebacker (well, almost), she thought he would have made a great Santa. Then she and her Mother both looked at me and asked, in unison, "why don't you do it?"

I laughed, not taking them seriously, but like a high voltage shock from an electric fence, a quick jolt of fear flashed through my body at the thought. After putting the thought aside for a whole day, in came THE TEXT MESSAGE (insert ominous music here). I stared at it for minutes, trying to be as clever as Jonathan at coming up with a viable excuse, but his wouldn't work for me. No way could I try to talk his family into insisting that I join them that evening to celebrate Christmas Eve. And it wouldn't feel right asking my visiting  sister to quickly put together a family party just to serve as a priority obligation - Mariah would see right through that. And I didn't want to disappoint Mariah. I've been working hard to stay in her good graces for twenty months now - since the birth of grandson, Jansen - wanting to maintain those liberal visitation privileges, you know.

I replied, "Hmmmm  do you think I'm big enough? Let me test out my ho ho ho's on Bonnie. IOW, I think we can make it work if you do."

"U will be great and we have pillows so don't eat to many cookies ;) thanks it will be fun," wrote Mariah.

A Big Family

Fun? Then why the pit in my stomach? Mariah's extended family has LOTS of kids in it. A whole town full. It had the potential to be the equivalent of a full shift in a Macy's department store. Twenty minutes, she said. I should be able to get through twenty minutes. Suddenly I found myself lowering my voice and ho-ho-ho'ing in the garage and between Christmas errands. Surfing the web I found all kinds of helpful tips on being Santa. "Take off any jewelry like watches or fitness bands." "Don't drink or smoke before taking the chair - kids can smell a fake." "Know something about Santa, like the names of all the reindeer." "Think of a response for those kids who call you out as not being the 'real' Santa." The helpful hints only fed my dread.

Entering the door to the Belisle home Christmas Eve threw us into marginally controlled chaos. Adults ringed the large dining room table and stood in the kitchen, most preparing or taking food from the stuffed countertops. Kids roamed everywhere. Seeing Kent and Mariah at the far end of the living room, we picked our way through the masses, trying not to step on little hands or feet. There was anticipation in the air for some of the kids. One had already heard Santa's bells three times, sure he was about to break through the door any minute. I was looking at my audience, up close and personal. Obviously they had high expectations of the act to come. Would an amateur be sufficient? I started to feel like I did in high school when I M.C.'d the school talent show, complete with the  dancing stomach, sweaty palms, and all that.

Then the great conductor, stage manager, director, and M.C. of all things Belisle, Mariah's mother, Naomi, looked at me and pointed up the stairs, distracting me from my growing trepidation. We marched up to her photo studio, where the Santa costume was piled on the floor. First the pants, with a waist large enough to fit a small pickup truck, but the legs too short to reach my ankles. Not to worry, though, it wouldn't matter. The drawstring pulled the waist up tight, the puckered fabric a non-factor since the ample coat with wide black belt covered everything down to the thighs. And the pants bottom would be covered by the boot tops. No boot bottoms, since well used black dress shoes fit the purpose. She patiently handed things in the right order and put things together as she had so many times with so many other Santa's over the years. Just as she started to show me how the lower beard worked (it comes in two parts so as to appear seamless and full) the thought of bladder pressure on the couch flashed through my mind. 

"I think maybe I'd better hit the head before I go down," I muttered sheepishly. 

"Now," she asked with some incredulity?

"Ahhh... well I think I'd better." 

I'm of that age, you know, I thought without ever admitting to it. She patiently led me to the rest room, careful in crossing the top of the stairs in case some young eyes might be prying up, risking the illusion. Picking through the layers of clothing and most frustratingly untying the knot I'd just put into the drawstring, I eventually accomplished the mission and returned to the studio. Carefully I  quietly peered around corners and crouched  through doorways and hallways. I imagined I looked like the animated characterization of a burglar tip-toeing with high knees and pointy feet, except dressed all in red instead of black.

Naomi patiently resumed with the beard installation. 

"This is your mouth hole," she advised, with a thin smirk on her lips. "It gets a little hot in there," she said as the smirk worked into a smile. That must have been every Santa's favorite part. She proceeded to comb out the beard as my temperature rose.

I folded both arms over the sleigh bells, which were big and loud enough to be heard in the next county, and carefully felt my way down steep outdoor stairs that ended at the back of the house. There, Mariah handed me a very large black bag filled with gifts. I heaved it, and I do mean heaved it, over my shoulder, promoting a Santa hunchback. She wished me luck and ducked into the garage, asking for a couple of minutes to get into position. She would be Santa's helper on the couch.

I stood for a moment, hunched over the sleigh bells, listening to the quiet of the Christmas Eve that would soon to be disturbed by my jangling bells and "Ho-Ho-Ho's." A lot of the CO2 of my breath was being recycled as I inhaled through the small, fuzzy mouth hole of the beard. I began jangling  my arm wildly as I approached the front door, wondering if all the neighborhood was peering out of  their windows to see what was the matter. As I opened the door and entered the warm room, all the adults turned and grinned, as if to say, "poor fellow, how did he fall for it..."

Looking down at the floor, I realized I was looking through the eyeglasses Naomi had perched on my nose. They were prescription, so everything was a blur as I picked my way though the sea of children. Some with wide, excited smiles, some looking as though they'd just seen a specter, and some with the look of resignation, old enough to know they had to just go along. I was waiting for the scream, "Santa stepped on my leg/arm/head!" It never came.

The couch seemed as if it were at the end of a long tunnel. I'm not sure what I said along the way, other than the ho-ho-ho's, but I doubt anyone could make it out anyway. It was as if I were speaking through a furnace filter. By the time I turned and plopped into the couch, with Mariah rescuing the bag of gifts, my head started to spin a bit as I struggled to breath. I heaved as I tried to gulp in some air. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought I was having a medical episode. Just the heat, I concluded, and the eighty pounds of gifts. I didn't want to give any consideration to the thought that it might have been a consequence of stage fright, promoted by the anxious and expectant faces of many of the small children.

For the next twenty minutes I ho-ho-ho'd and bounced kids on my knee as Naomi snapped pictures. Even the high school kids were required to sit on my sagging knee, under the watchful glare of the director, instructed to maintain the illusion for their younger relatives. About half way through I started to realize that my anxiety was for naught. The presents I was handing out covered any glaring shortcomings in my acting. 

By the time my own grandson was plopped on my knee, I started to relax and enjoy the show from behind my scratchy beard. Jansen looked into my eyes as he first approached, using that judge-y look to assess his interest in this odd looking fellow. Having come to a conclusion, he turned away his gaze to the crowd to find he was the center of attention - not his favorite circumstance. He went into a trance to hide any and all emotions. It was only when the big fella with the boney knee handed him the gift of a toy cordless drill that he let go a smile. All the while he had not a clue the connection between the slightly disturbing red-suited bearded one and his grandpa. 

Mission accomplished.