Being big and being Santa

This is a bit of an unusual post. I was writing an email to a friend about my experiences as Santa Claus during the holidays and as I considered what I wanted to say, I kept seeing myself as the big guy being the Santa in the stories. The problem was that I was the big guy in the stories. This was a time in my life when I didn't think about my weight as a handicap or as a detriment to my health. I was simply able to put on my Santa suit with no additional pillows or padding. The kids when they snuggled up to me just felt me under that suit and it made them feel closer to the real Santa. And it made me feel like the real Santa.


So here are a few of my stories on being Santa.

From 1979 to 1990 I was given the amazing responsibility of being Santa Claus during December. In the beginning, I had my Father’s old suit made of flannel with some actual wolf fur for trim. The beard and the wig were cheesy and the “boots” were just covers for black shoes. But I put it on and I became Santa. It was an amazing transforming experience each time I put on that and subsequent suits over the years. It was not a costume. To the children and many others, Santa was real, not a character like the Easter Bunny, or a Halloween character. You were transformed and you had to behave and act the way Santa would act.

Every year I would plan to visit the children of my co-workers in San Diego. We all had kids in the appropriate age range (4-8 years old) so I would show up at their houses, with a bag of presents provided by Mom and Dad. I would come in Ho Ho Ho-ing and then sit for a while with the kids so pictures could be taken. I then almost always sat down on the floor with the kids to look at their presents and spend a few minutes of bonding. I rarely was there more than 20 minutes. Kids kind of get into emotional overload with Santa, so I would come in, do the visit and get out. The years went on and the kids got bigger and they began to not believe any longer. That was a sad time but it was inevitable.

While those times were precious to me there were others that were magical.

After doing a Christmas party for a friend’s child, I went to find my wife who had been shopping at Toys R Us in San Diego. The one thing you never do is wear part of the costume. Either you are in it and Santa or you are out of it and not Santa. No in between. So I decided to walk into Toys R Us in full costume. It was amazing. I was looking for Sandi and was wandering up and down the aisles. Kids were pulling parents toward me and parents were pulling kids toward me. I would kneel down and give then each a hug and a candy cane and then walk on. I finally found Sandi and we finished shopping. She was having fun watching all the kids. As we went to check out, the checker in our line was frowning at me and said that I was disappointing a lot of children there. But I looked over into the next checkout aisle and there was this beautiful little girl about 5 years old sitting in the cart. She was staring at me and she held out her arms to me. I walked over and hugged her and gave her a candy cane and then turned to the checker. “That’s what this is all about”. I paid and left, I don’t remember the checker, but I remember that little girl.

Another time I was driving home from a visit and cruising along in my bright orange Volvo sedan. I noticed a car going off the off ramp behind me, then swerving back on the freeway and accelerating toward me. It was a black limo and as it pulled up next to me I noticed that the window on the passenger side was down and there was a little boy leaning out the window, with a very excited look on his face. As the cars closed together, I leaned out the window and gave the little one a candy cane (at 60 MPH) and wished him a Merry Christmas. They sped off and went off the next off ramp. I would be willing to bet that the little boy remembers that Christmas.

Being Santa was the highest and best use of my time during that holiday time. But these last stories affected me the most of all.

I was visiting a convalescent home that was managed by a dear friend of mine. I had spent a lot of time in the communal hall with the patients gathered singing songs and getting presents. Most were elderly and many were in wheelchairs. But they were an enthusiastic group. After a half hour or so I asked if I could wander the halls and visit the patients in their rooms, if they had not been able to come out. Marilyn said sure so I wandered off. I would pop into a room, and if the patient was awake, wish them a merry Christmas and then quickly disappear. But as I approached one room the nurse said that there was no reason to go in there, the lady was out of it and was probably asleep. But I persisted. I walked into the room and the woman, very frail and old, was lying there quietly and apparently asleep. I stood next to the bed, and took her hand and held it. She opened her eyes, and looked at me, dressed in that silly red suit and that white beard and wig, and for a second there was recognition. Just for a second, there was a light in her eyes. And then they closed again. I needed a drink after that visit.

The final story was about a Christmas Party given by my wife’s sorority for children with Cystic Fibrosis. It was held at a clubhouse and the party had been going on for an hour by the time I made my entrance. I had two huge bags of presents for the kids and came in to loud and welcoming screams and yells from the kids. Children with CF do not grow very well generally and are often quite small. But there was one little girl standing over in a corner that caught my attention. She was dressed nicely but did not look like she was having a good time. She was probably 5 or 6 years old. When she saw me come in, she took off running toward me and I knew I needed to catch her. She threw herself at me from several feet away and I caught her as she hit my chest. She stuck to me like Velcro. So I dropped the bags of packages and hugged her to me for a minute. She would not let go of me and I sat there with her on one knee and the other kids, one after the other, on the other knee for the whole time I was there. She never spoke or said anything to me. She didn’t have to. I just knew. She died later that next year.

So being Santa was not only a wondrous experience leaving me with so many stories and memories, but it was a significant responsibility as well. It was my gift to myself each holiday season. I accepted the responsibility as well as the love. It was a precious time. I have also come to realize that while my weight influenced how I acted as Santa it also affected my health. What I have done in my weight loss is to stop being Santa and start being healthy. Losses and gains are a part of the process.