I wore the Red Suit (14 page)

Children of Iron, Children of Pain

           
This is by far the saddest and most depressing part of the Santa experience. It is difficult to remain unfeeling when a child is in pain or hurting inside. I often wish that I could take their pain. When I see a child fall or get hurt, it hurts me too. After seeing hundreds of kids a day, one or two of them will sicken my heart. I think one of the hardest times is holding a very young child on my knee, and feeling their leg braces dig into my leg. Alternatively, the unforgiving stiffness of a back brace as I hold a little boy on my knee. A child should be running and playing, not confined to bits of iron on their bodies or in wheel chairs.

I once held an eight-month-old boy who has no neck control. His mother removed his neck brace so a picture could be taken. I had to hold his head from flopping as the helpers take a few pictures. I had to turn him to face me as I could see him straining his eyes to try to see me at his side.

A ten-year-old boy can up to me dragging a cast covered foot. He had on one of those canvas overshoes to protect the foot from dirt and water. “Oh my,” I say with hands on my cheeks. “What happened to you?” “Well,” the mother says, “he fell from a tree a month ago.” “You poor thing” I said in a voice I hoped sounded with genuine concern. I made him comfortable on my knee as he told me what he wanted for Christmas. His mother said his brother would be here in a couple of minutes, so both boys can have pictures taken together. The brother came dragging his foot also with an identical cast, but on the opposite leg. “What happened to you,” I ask? The father says that this boy tripped over his brother’s foot when it was outstretched in the living room. He fell in such an odd way as to break it in three places. He did it a week after his brother broke his at the bottom of a tree. The father says how many times does that happen in a person’s lifetime. I started saying you poor boys and ended up saying you poor parents.

Having kids up close, I can see marks on their hands or faces. Most times, it is just a child who bumps into things or gets into a fight with another child. However, cigarette burns on the arms, or black and blue marks around the neck is not from being clumsy or taking someone else's toy. The eyes of the parents give them away. It grieves the heart that there is not much I can do about it. I always say a silent prayer for the child and their abusive parent or parents. I try to get the child's name if the parents are not listening. It one of the only times I break character and ask a child his or her complete name. If they are old enough to talk. If not I make a ruse of knowing the kid’s parents from somewhere. Sometimes they can see through me and just walk away. After all, I am supposed to know their names. I contact those in authority who might be able to help the child and parents. I know that this may get me into trouble, as I am not supposed to do anything but be Santa. I have to think back to St. Nickolas and what he stood for with protecting and caring about children.

“Santa, can you help my daddy feel better. He has been very sad since my mommy went to heaven. He drinks a lot of beer and sleeps. Sometimes he forgets to cook dinner for my little brother and me.
 
I know that you only bring toys to good children, but I do not know anyone else to ask. My teacher says that you can do magic. Please help my daddy!”

Sitting on my knee is a quiet little girl with pleading eyes big as saucers. “Santa, I live with my cousins because my mommy and daddy went away. My cousins hit me all the time and will not play with me. My aunt and uncle are too busy to help when I ask them. All I want for Christmas is someone to love me. Can you find someone for me? I promise to be good, always.”

“Santa, I am a really good girl. My mommy told me that we were going to have a new baby brother soon. He is in her tummy, so can you watch over him until he gets born.”

Another form of abuse is one of neglect. I had a child who took a swing at Santa. He wanted my Santa cap. When I would not give it to him, he turned around and tried to punch poor Santa in the nose. He was about twelve years old. He forgot that he was sitting on my knee. I moved my leg, and the momentum of his swing caused him to drop to the carpeted floor on his bottom. There was no parent there to monitor this child along with a ten-year-old girl and a six-year-old boy. Security told me later that they found out that the mother would bring these three kids to the mall. She would give them some money for food and to play video games. She left them at the mall when it opened at 9.00 in the morning, and would pick them up at 6.00 in the evening. God help us!

I watched a young woman rocking her baby on a bench a short distance from my Santa chair. The baby looked about three months old. She was rocking back and forth, soothing the crying baby. She was trying to put the child asleep. Her black eye turned in a vain attempt to escape my sight. Too late, the whiteness of her soft skin could not hide the ugliness of that mark. This must be the night for battered women. I saw two others not that long ago this very night. They too looked away from me in shame. One shed a tear; the other kept an unemotional and faraway face. I often wonder, if I was just another person walking through the mall, would I have even seen these women?

Then there is the stupid parent. I could you use more descriptive terms, but Santa does not talk like that. I am talking about a parent or grandparent who constantly belittles a child. I had a little girl who came to me easily enough, but she would not smile for the picture. She was about seven years old and a little overweight; not fat, but healthy. Her grandfather kept telling her not to laugh, "it would make her face fatter than it already was. If I were you,” he says, “I would not smile either; you will never be anything worthwhile.” The mother and grandmother were there, but they never stopped his raving. He was a big man; an older gentleman that had not matured in my opinion. Ever spiteful and sarcastic word cut on that sweet little girl's heart and mine. I had to remember where, and who I was. If I were not playing Santa, I would have let him know what I thought of his mouth. How would it look to the other children seeing Santa getting mad?