Sheltering Arms
From Santa-morphisis, Christmas 2001

I read one of Joy’s student essays today about maturity. It must be the best of its kind.

This from a girl I coddled and nurtured and cared for and love so dearly. This from a girl I’ve known from her first cry, a face I will never forget. This from a girl whose father became a peculiar kind of Santa somewhere along the way, a girl just skeptical enough, maybe a bit more, with equal amounts of innocence, better equipped than most to use it all to it’s fullest.

Mrs. Claus and I picked up some treats at the drug store and were off to Sheltering Arms a non-profit organization providing daycare for fifty-six children of families with low incomes. I could see the kids in the window when we drove up. I could hear them yelling, Santa! Santa! My blood began pumping fast.

Inside, the assistant director gave me a bag for each class. First was a group of one-year-olds. Some were excited. Some were dumbfounded. Some were afraid. One little girl stayed near the far corner and didn’t move the whole time I was there.

From small voices I could determine that most of the girls wanted either Barbie Dolls or a baby dolls. And a car. Most of the boys wanted a motorbike and a car. And Power Rangers. Jamal had a yellow bubble in one nostril. He was dressed in a red sweatshirt and tiny jeans. I gave a little brown bag to each child. Two girls were named Sidney. The bags had little knit caps and knit mittens in them, white and lavender for the girls, black and brown for the boys.

Mrs. Claus led us all in a chorus of “Jingle Bells,” then “Here Comes Santa Claus," when we discovered we’d better stick with the songs to which we knew at least a majority of the words. Mrs. Claus was especially helpful with that.

We took pictures in large groups. And small groups. And with just one or two kids on my lap. A mother of one of the three-year-olds took most of the pictures.

One kid lifted my jacket and stuck his head under it. They asked me many questions, You the real Santa? Yes. Where are your reindeer? At the farm getting fed. The children were the stars of the show and I fell in love fifty-six times.

Miracle had pierced ears. She sat on the teacher’s knee. Quentin sat on the other knee. He had long curly black hair. They clung to their teacher all the while Santa talked with the other boys and girls; while the pictures were snapped, the wishes expressed, the songs sang.
Miracle finally sat on one of my knees. She wants a Barbie doll and a car. She has this down by now. What a cool name, I said, Miracle. She really is a miracle, somebody said, nobody told me why.

The twin girls with Downs Syndrome; so pretty. One wore a purple crushed velvet dress.
The little senses of self. The insecure, vying and jockeying for position with Santa. The ever so shy. McKenzie had to be brought to me and placed on my lap. While I began speaking with her, her teacher told her, It’s all right, holding one of McKenzie’s hands. I told her it would be OK and she let the hand slip. McKenzie gave me her Barbie and car wishes very quietly. She stayed on my lap while group pictures were taken. She asked for at least two hugs, maybe three, before I left the group to go on to the next.

Things I said were sometimes awkward to me. You will get lots of presents. And your parents have worked hard for your presents. One kid said, We don’t have any presents.

I went to Agnes Scott College to bring Joy home for the break, the third time Santa appeared there this season. I stayed by the dorm door and shuffled Joy’s luggage to the car. Joy and her roommate were mildly amused. (Daddy, why’d you have to wear that suit again?)