Growing up, I had godparents. I mean, we weren’t really close to them, and I didn’t really know them. They were who my parents chose before I was even born. I don’t know if my parents ever sat me down to tell us or if my sister and I just sort of absorbed the information the way kids do, but we always knew that if something happened to our parents, we would be sent to live with our godparents.
Duh duh duh!
It was terrifying. Not because they were mean or because we were afraid they would starve us. No. We were scared because they didn’t believe in Santa. That and their youngest child was psychotic. Like truly. I think there was something wrong with her. She stayed at our house for a sleepover once, and only once. Why? Because halfway through the night, she started calling the doorknobs mommy and daddy and was having full conversations for them. We had to go get her mom, who was also staying at the house, to make her stop. It was a bad night for everyone.
But back to the Santa business. Our godparents thought that Santa had stolen all the thunder from Jesus’ birthday, and so they refused to let him down their chimney.
And they made it very clear that if we went to live with them, Santa was not going to visit us ever again.
My sister and I were terrified! A life without Santa! I don’t think we ever realized that both of our parents would also be dead should we actually have to live with the anti-Santa brigade. We were too caught up in the much more imaginable fear of losing Santa Claus!
We planned all sorts of ways to get around having to go to the godparents. Mostly involving my eight-year-old sister driving us to Canada, or living in a boxcar in the woods.
We were terrified of change, even if the change would only come once a year.
Thank God we never had to drive to Canada to escape the godparents, so it never really became an issue. But just for the record, Santa still fills my stocking every year.