A Letter from Santa After a Disappointing Christmas

Dear Ronnie,

Santa here. Just wanted to write you a note to acknowledge your disappointment that I didn’t bring the zipline and smart whiteboard you asked for this year. You see, my elves have so many presents to make, and only a limited amount of materials and time. Your requested items amounted to what would have been $8,010 in materials and 297 elf labor hours. Creating them would have simply not allowed me to provide toys to all the boys and girls in the world. I know you are the kind of boy who cares about others and wants to make sure things are fair for all children, so I’m sure you understand. But even though you understand, I’m sure you are still feeling a little let-down. After all, you have been alive on this planet for seven years, all the while being told left and right and everywhere you look, that acquiring the next big material possession is what brings happiness.

So I suppose it was only natural that I saw you the other night through my magic snowglobe ask your mom, “Mom, if Santa can’t bring me what I want, can you just work some more so that you can buy me what I want?” You looked a little disappointed when your mom explained that she only works part-time so that she can be home with you when you get home from school and that money and toys aren’t what make people happy. She hugged you, and you nodded, but I still saw that you were confused.

So, Ronnie, I would like to remind you of a few things that I saw through my magic snowglobe this holiday season to make you understand better the truth about money and toys and happiness:

I saw you, on the playground after school one day, dancing to Uptown Funk blasting on your mom’s phone. You were having a dance contest with four of your friends and both of your brothers. When it was your turn to show off your moves, your mom shouted, “Go Ronnie, Go!” and I heard you laughing wildly all the way at the North Pole. You talked about that moment every night for a week. That joy and freedom wasn’t purchased with money and didn’t come in a fancy box.

I saw you, on your front step one afternoon, resting your head in your mom’s lap. You were missing your best recess buddy who just moved away. Your mom rubbed your back and kissed your head. You sat there for ten minutes, a little tired and a little sad, just feeling the warmth of your mom’s fleece jacket surround you in silence. That feeling of safety and comfort didn’t cost any money and didn’t come from a store.

I watched you as you insisted on reading “Piggy in the Puddle” to your brother in an animated, high-pitched voice. You did it, even though you hate reading aloud, because he had pneumonia and you were trying to cheer him up. Your mom made such a big deal about your kindness, and you started associating being kind with feeling good. You later offered to donate $20 of your own money to a family whose car broke down. I also saw you, after reading the attached sign, sneak $1.00 of your tooth fairy money in the Ronald McDonald House Charity box when no was even looking! (No one besides me of course.) The feelings of purpose and meaning that stem from compassion cannot be purchased with money or wrapped in a box.

I saw you, go running into your dads arms when he returned from his business trip only to be squeezed between your mom and dad a couple of seconds later. “A Ronnie sandwich!” You giggled at your own joke and completely took for granted your mom and dad kissing each other over your head. You later found a cartoonish book your mom made for your dad in 2006 and was fascinated by the love story in it. “Yup,” your dad said in front of you,”I’m a lucky man.” And you knew what he meant because you’ve heard your parents say that about each other so often. That security and love didn’t cost any money and can’t be kept in your toy box.

I saw you, during the bike ride to school one day, suddenly stop and panic. “I forgot my bike lock!” Your mom looked you in the eye and reminded you of the road safety rules before you pedaled back and crossed two streets to retrieve the lock. When you caught up with your mom and brothers a moment later, lock in hand, you beamed with pride. You told your dad all about how you went back all by yourself, and how Mom trusted you to be responsible. Remembering that, you later volunteered to read the announcements, something that would have made you nervous before. That pride wasn’t purchased with money and didn’t come wrapped in a gift bag.

Ronnie, I know you won’t understand this completely right now, but all of those moments are the moments that fuel you now and will continue to fuel you in the future. You probably don’t even notice the real power of those experiences as they are happening, but I know they are the real gifts in your life.

Yes, I’m the guy that flies around giving presents to everyone, but compared to those moments, I want you to know that what I have to offer is overrated.

It’s my wish that you and all children-from 1 to 99- have, sprinkled throughout the ups and downs of their lives, many many moments more important and meaningful than even the most popular toys or expensive possessions.

Ho, Ho, Ho,

Love,

Santa

Angelica Shiels is a licensed clinical psychologist and blogger at On the Yellow Couch. She lives in Maryland with her husband and three boys. Join real conversations about parenting, relationships, and psychology on Facebook and Twitter.