I’m sure you’ve heard the expression “She let the cat out of the bag” at some point in your life. Sometimes the cat just chews a hole in the bag and takes a peek out.
No matter how it happens, once that cat is out it never goes back in quite the same way. That happened to me this morning, as I’ll explain.
I strive in my life to keep Santa Claus in a box for a good share of the year. The box is kept next to the cat in the bag. Sometimes Santa and Joe live in the same place (like this blog) and other times only one or the other is allowed out at any given time. Kind of like Clark Kent and Superman. I do that to keep small ones from being confused.
For example, I have some cousins who only know me as Santa. I’m only around at Christmas time and only in the red suit. I’m not going to reveal my true self (and the line gets more blurred every year) until they’re all at least 9 or quit believing, whichever comes later. I love those kids and it’s been fun watching them grow up. But if they met Joe it would ruin many aspects of their childhood for them. As it is, they just think that they have the best relationship that any child ever could with Santa.
On the other hand, my niece and nephew didn’t know that I was Santa… until this morning. I’d coached all of the family about the issue, put my beard in pony tails to further the deception and sworn them all to secrecy. They are visiting from out of state and on the first night of their visit the topic of my strong resemblance to Santa came up. I assured them that not only was Santa a better fellow, but he was better looking as well. Fortunately they agreed and the subject was dropped. But they had been wondering/speculating for some time from what I gathered. I even managed to sneak in a picture with my niece on my knee. A Santa photo with out the suit.
Super, thought the fat man. Pulled it off. And then this morning we were all at the pancake place that has become a tradition when they visit. I don’t even remember how it came up, but my wife’s response to a question was, “Well, at least as long as he’s been Santa.”
The world stopped. My wife slumped down in the chair. She’d not just let the cat out of the bag, but she’d kicked the poor thing right between the uprights and scored 3 points. Totally crestfallen, I was sure she’d burst into tears. What she didn’t see, but I clearly observed, was my six year old nephew at the far end of the table do everything but a fist pump and a cartwheel. His expression said, “I KNEW MY UNCLE WAS THE REAL SANTA!!!” and then he quickly put on the stone face. He somehow knew that that was as secret that he couldn’t acknowledge under any circumstances around me. After all, I’d obviously been hiding that fact from him. But he had that secret in his pocket and it warmed him in a way that I’d never seen before.
He’s headed back to his home a thousand miles away and when the time comes, he’ll be telling his friends that Santa is his uncle. How can he be sure? Well, his uncle looks like Santa, lives in the north, and sends him cool toys at random times of the year. I hope they believe him, because that’s about the neatest thing any 6 year old can have in his aresenal.
How do I feel about it? A little sad that I’m no longer just Uncle Joe. But tremendously proud to have those two little kids as members of my family. I’ll give up a part of one identity to take on the other for the rest of their lives. That’s what they call a mixed blessing.
