Last Waltz for All CMBs Two

posted 12/14/2006
I knew that last Christmas was my last waltz as far as acting as the covert agent for all Childhood Mythical Beings (CMBs). Having functioned as the residential mole for Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy for nine years, I was sensitive to the Declining Level of Belief and the Rising Level of Skepticism in my daughter.

I still stayed up past midnight last year to perform all of the duties required of CMB operatives. I poured the milk left for Santa back into the carton, and ate his cookies. I went outside to tip over the water left for the reindeer. I nibbled the apples down to the core, and rooted around in the dark garage for the hidden gifts It was a bittersweet evening.

My success rate at this sort of thing had been mixed and we'd had some stressful glitches in execution. But I knew that the window of Childhood Belief was rapidly closing for my youngster, and I would miss the rituals once they were obsolete.

Nevertheless, once the truth was out, the holidays would cease to be a clandestine operation for me, and I could stop puzzling out new ways to outwit Rose. Almost every CMB event, heretofore, had included a few unforeseen mishaps.

One year, I had failed to put anything into my own Christmas stocking. Rose was devastated on my behalf. She couldn't comprehend how Santa could be so cruel as to completely ignore me. I managed to wrap up a small kitchen gadget, and when she wasn't looking, I stuffed it in the toe of my stocking. "Oh, look, honey!! Santa DID leave me a gift. A vegetable peeler! I just missed it!"

Another year, I had ordered a set of international dolls. I received two shipping boxes and assumed that the company had divided the order between them. It never occurred to me that they were duplicates, and I wrapped the boxes without looking inside. Rose was astonished to receive two identical sets...I blamed it on inexperienced, out-sourced seasonal elf workers.

My work as Deputy Tooth Fairy had its moments as well. On the evening that Rose lost a bicuspid, I discovered that my wallet was empty. That night, I made a faux gift certificate to the Mystical Mermaid and tucked it under Rose's pillow. I called them the next day to explain that soon, they would be honoring a certificate they hadn't actually sold.

On another occasion, I failed to check the financial sheets to learn the current market value of a molar. Rose compared Tooth Fairy loot with a classmate the next day and was puzzled to learn that her friend had lost a tooth the same night, but received different compensation. I explained that the Tooth Fairy pays out on sliding scale according to the type of tooth. A bicuspid trumps an incisor; a molar trumps all. She regarded me suspiciously.

I had my good years and bad years as the servant of the Easter Bunny. One memorable Easter Sunday, I crept out into the garden at dawn to make a trail of bunny prints with flour. Along the way, I hid chocolate rabbits and eggs and trinkets behind rocks, under benches, in the lamb's ears, and in low tree limbs.

It was adorable to see my little girl skipping out a few hours later in her Easter finery, her gathering basket in hand. Our charming moment was quickly shattered when all she could find were bits of tin foil, shredded ribbon and eggshells. Apparently, the Easter Raccoon had arrived shortly after the Easter Bunny and he had a fondness for chocolate. Fortunately, he had no interest in money and he left the cash behind. My daughter has a philosophical bent and she just shrugged and said, "It's ok. I have money now. I'll buy some stuff for my basket."

On a previous Easter, I, unwittingly, crossed paths with another Easter Bunny. When Rose came home from her hunt, she had empanadas and cascarones in her basket, along with someone else's gift certificate to a skateboard shop. (Not to worry, I cleared that error up with a phone call.)

Earlier last year, Rose said, “Do you know why I believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy? You're just way too lazy to ever put all of that together." I didn't know whether to be offended because she thought I didn't have much initiative and organizational skill, or whether to be pleased because I had pulled off my secret identity for so many years without arousing suspicion.

I didn't have much training in this sort of CMB planning, coming, as I did, from mirthless progenitors. My parents were either not from an age and place where children were indulged with gifts and imaginary gift-givers, or they just weren't whimsical people.

As children in WWI Europe, they counted themselves lucky to have the very barest of necessities – toys and gifts did not exist for them outside of their dreams. Landing on America's shores did little to foster a more consumption-based holiday spirit.

My parents did not give Christmas gifts to me, or to one another. My mother preferred to recount how much shampoo and underwear was purchased on my behalf over the course of the previous year. My father said nothing, read his Plain Truth magazine, and waited (ever a man who enjoyed anticipating crushing hardship) for the next Depression.

I recall that every year my mother would pack a box for her relatives in Communist East Germany. In it, she would put roll and rolls of toilet paper, coffee and winter boots. Every year, she would shake her head sadly, acknowledging the futility of her efforts, and sigh, “The Communists will steal all of this before my aunts see any of it."

To my sister, who lived in Hollywood, California, she would send an economy size box of Kotex, saying "This is something she can always use." While I couldn't argue with that, I hoped, for my sister's sake, there were also thieving Communists in California.

The year I was ten was a memorable Christmas. In an uncharacteristic burst of Yuletide spirit, my father went out to the drugstore and bought a pint bottle of dark green cologne called, "Esprit de Noel" for me. Although it stained the collar of my blouses, I loved the pine-fresh scent, and I had so much of it that I was still wearing it in high school. I probably smelled like a car air freshener.

Nor were we doing much better on the Tooth-for-Cash Exchange Program. I tried to get my parents in the Tooth Fairy mind-set by explaining to them the game plan..."Ok. I've lost a tooth. Tonight, I'll leave the tooth under my pillow and you come into my room and take the tooth and leave the money. Got it?"

They were so poor at following these directions that, eventually, I just got the fifty cents from them in advance and put it under my pillow myself. Sometimes, you just have to be proactive.

Years later, my dad made some progress and would fill up my car with gas at Christmas (nowadays, that's quite a generous expenditure). My mother started giving me decorative plates from the Franklin Mint and dish towels. Not a lot of ingenuity, but they tried.

Anyway, given my lack of role models, I was pleased that my efforts had gone well enough to convince my daughter for such a long while. But after Christmas last year, it was clear that she had fallen in with a crowd of third grade non-believers. "You know, Mom, Zachary says that Santa Claus doesn't exist. He said your parents play Santa and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy."

I thought that she had already crossed over, and just wanted me to confirm what she already knew to be true. I was wrong, and I divulged the true facts too soon, maybe. She was saddened to hear that her lazy mother was the true source of packages and chocolate bunnies and fairy visits.

It happens to every Believer, I suppose. It is often said that creation is a simultaneous act of destruction - we break open the cocoon in order to fly. We give up our faith in CMBs so we can grow up.

So, this Christmas will be different and I'll get to bed a lot earlier. Rose's Christmas list will go to me and not to the North Pole. The Barbie Cruise Ship and the request for "Anything I haven't thought of yet" on the wish lists of Christmases Past has given way to a video camera and an aqua Vespa. But, who knows? There may still be a few surprises…we'll leave some apples and water on the porch just in case.

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Ingrid is currently living and respectably employed in Austin, Texas with a firm specializing in environmental law. She hopes to get back home to the San Juan Islands next spring to stay.
While Ingrid is spiritually promiscuous, she credits her guru, Jimmy Buffet, for her mantra..."If we couldn't laugh, we would all go insane." Besides a passion for Tiki Studies, Ingrid is borderline biblio-obsessive. She is an old-school Libran - i.e., she won't be leading the Revolution, but she'll work to make it an attractive affair and hire the musicians and caterers."

Her column appears every other Thursday in San Juan Islander. To contact Ingrid, send emails to ingrid@sanjuanislander.com

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