WHEN CHRISTMAS BECOMES ALL ABOUT PAJAMAS The most wonderful time of the year is here: the season in which you have to (once again) make a wrenching decision: Should I lie to the kids? My friend has an eleven year old daughter who discovered her baby teeth in her mother’s drawer and extrapolated. “She wasn’t sure about Santa last year,” her mom says, “but she gets it now. And she’s bitter. I mean, no Santa, no Tooth Fairy. She asked if it means there’s no Easter Bunny, too, and what about God?” To tell or not to tell. That is the question. I know this particular issue has been debated ad nauseum and yet I intend to add to the nausea with my own reminiscences. It seems to me Christmas is all about magic. At least for kids. It certainly was for me. I loved going to get the tree, setting it up, listening to mom and dad argue about the placement of the lights, hanging the tinsel on the lower branches. I loved the anticipation of Santa and of family. Our family enjoyed a tri-partite Christmas On December 24th, in the late afternoon, we’d pile into the station wagon and dad would drive us from our home in Ann Arbor to Dearborn to visit my mother’s parents, sisters and brothers, and our cousins. We’d spend the evening running around the basement, drinking (otherwise forbidden) Cokes and eating chips, liverwurst sandwiches and Lebkuchen, watching the adults guzzle cherry-topped manhattans and play silly group games devised by my dad, listen to Grandma sing “Stille Nacht”, in her high, thin voice, and opening gifts from the relatives. Mostly Avon products and pajamas. On the drive home my younger twin brothers slept in the cargo section of the car while I hung over the front seat avidly listening to my mom and dad chatting about the relatives and looking out the window as we passed the lighted manger scenes and the strings of lights across the downtown streets in Garden City, Westland, Plymouth and Ypsilanti, all the little towns along Ford Road. The sense of anticipation was high and sleep hard to come by and we, my brothers and I were always up well before dawn. Unfortunately my dad worked for the newspaper so he had to go in for a few hours. We’d open out stocking gifts then go back to bed. I wonder now how on earth my mother convinced us to do that but I suppose there were threats. The actual opening of presents was the zenith. I can’t remember ever being disappointed. My mom would have coordinated with my best friend’s mom to get us the same doll, the same ice skates, the same Nancy Drew books. Dad would contribute little surprises like a wooden barrette or a bracelet. Of course those glorious moments eventually came to an end and we would pile back into the car to drive three miles to my dad’s parents’s house. It was a big, lovely Victorian home with a Christmas tree inherited from the fraternity boys next door. My grandad did not believe in spending money. We’d have a great turkey dinner then open packages, most of them for my grandmother from her many sisters, and a few for my brothers and me. Nearly always pajamas. With that reminiscence out of the way, let me get back to the great lie. I think it’s okay. I mean life is full of disillusionment, right? And there have to be a few years between receiving the perfect Madame Alexander doll to getting a new laptop or a pair of pajamas when faith and belief are uncertain. My folks actually did a great job of bridging the gap. At some point when we were adults (or almost) my dad started a tradition of dragging out of his wallet, a curled and yellowed copy of the famous editorial from the New York Sun in his wallet titled, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.” He would read it (without his glasses), and always, always the beautiful sentiment would make my otherwise happy-go-lucky, irreverent dad, tear up. That was kind of a magic moment, pajamas notwithstanding.