Remembering When Santa Couldn't Find Flipper

A Christmas Story About Loss, Hope, and the Magic We Can't Always Make

There's a Calvin and Hobbes strip that perfectly captures the quiet exasperation and reluctant love parents feel when trying to fix their child's world. It's night, and Calvin's parents are out in the woods searching for Hobbes, Calvin’s lost stuffed tiger. Calvin’s dad grumbles about how ridiculous it is to look for a toy in the dark, while his mom, flashlight in hand, calls out “Ho-o-obbes!” into the trees. In the final panel, she sheepishly admits how silly it feels, and Calvin’s dad replies, “I may be crazy, but I’m not as crazy as you.” It's a moment that’s both absurd and touching—two parents doing something ridiculous simply because it matters deeply to their child.

I think about that strip every time I remember the Christmas of the Missing Flipper.

The Crisis

Faith was about five, and we were doing last-minute Christmas shopping at the mall—that particular kind of December chaos where holiday music battles crying toddlers and everyone's running on caffeine and determination. Faith had brought Flipper with her, as she always did. He was her constant companion, a small gray dolphin I'd picked up years earlier from the gift shop at the Houston Aquarium during a business trip.

Flipper wasn't much to look at—standard stuffed animal fare, the kind you'd find in any aquarium gift shop. But to Faith, he was everything. He had the perfect amount of squishiness, the right weight in her arms, and that indefinable something that makes one toy irreplaceable while a dozen identical ones gather dust.

Somewhere between the food court and Santa's village, Flipper disappeared.

The realization hit like a physical blow. Faith's face crumpled in that way that makes your heart forget how to beat properly. We retraced our steps, asked mall security, checked lost and found. Nothing. Flipper was gone, swallowed up by the holiday crowds and the vast anonymity of shopping mall America.

The Promise

Standing in that mall, watching my daughter's world fall apart over a $12 stuffed dolphin, I did what parents do when backed into an impossible corner: I improvised. I made a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Santa will find Flipper. He has helpers everywhere, and they'll look for him. Santa will bring him back for Christmas."

It was the kind of parental promise that feels necessary in the moment and terrifying immediately after. But Faith's tears stopped, replaced by that beautiful, trusting hope that makes childhood both magical and heartbreaking. She believed Santa could do what we couldn't.

The Search

I was confident this would be easy. I'd bought Flipper at the Houston Aquarium—how hard could it be to call the gift shop and order another one?

Very hard, as it turned out.

Flippers that didn't make the cut

The gift shop no longer carried that particular plush. It had been discontinued. The helpful employee suggested I try their website, other aquarium gift shops, maybe eBay. What had seemed like a simple phone call became a quest that would span two states and the entire internet.

I visited every toy store in Southern California. I bought dolphins from eBay sellers across the country. I examined plush marine life with the intensity of a marine biologist. Gray dolphins, blue dolphins, small dolphins, large dolphins—I acquired enough stuffed sea creatures to stock my own aquarium gift shop.

But none of them were Flipper. None had quite the right shade of gray, the same fin shape, the perfect degree of huggability that made Flipper irreplaceable. Each purchase was accompanied by a mixture of hope and growing dread as I realized the magnitude of what I'd promised.

The Letter

Christmas Eve arrived, and I still hadn't found him. Faith had asked about Flipper every day, her faith in Santa's abilities unwavering. I was going to have to tell her that even Santa had limits.

So I did what parents do when magic fails: I tried to make meaning from the disappointment.

Santa's letter explained that he and his elves had searched the whole world for Flipper. They'd checked toy stores and aquariums, looked in children's bedrooms and under Christmas trees. But sometimes, Santa wrote, when a special toy gets lost, it finds its way to a child who needs it even more—maybe a little boy or girl who didn't have any toys at all, who needed Flipper's comfort even more than Faith did.

Santa was sure Flipper was in good hands, making another child feel loved and safe. And while he couldn't bring back the original Flipper, he hoped Faith would give this new dolphin a chance to become just as special.

The Reality

Faith accepted the explanation with the grace that children sometimes show when adults are honest with them about hard things. She named the new dolphin Flipper 2 and dutifully carried him around for a while. But it was never the same. You can't manufacture the bond between a child and their chosen comfort object, no matter how much love and Santa magic you pour into the attempt.

Flipper Two was tolerated rather than treasured, a constant reminder of what had been lost rather than what had been found.

The Redemption

Faith & a Flipper, St. Nicholas Day 2006.

For a few years St. Nick, who is fond of brining good children stuffed animals on St. Nicholas Day, brought a new dolphin to bring to Faith—mainly to assuage my guilt. Soon enough, she found herself with a bed full of stuffed dolphins. She liked them all but my (and St. Nicholas') quest continued. Finally, a few years later, browsing yet another toy store during the holidays, I found him. Not Flipper—that ship had sailed—but his nearly identical twin. The same shade of gray, the same proportions, the same soft texture that had made the original so perfect.

This time, I didn't promise Faith that Santa had found the original Flipper. St. Nicholas simply left the new dolphin in her stocking with a small note: "Sometimes miracles take a little longer to arrive."

By then, Faith was older, wiser about the ways of the world and the limitations of holiday magic. But she accepted this dolphin with something approaching the old affection, and he became a gentle presence in her room—not quite Flipper, but close enough to bring comfort without the weight of impossible expectations.

The Lesson

In the Calvin and Hobbes strip, Calvin does eventually find Hobbes—his friend Susie had been taking care of him. But the relief comes only after Calvin has experienced the full weight of loss, the helplessness of searching, and the devastating possibility that his best friend might be gone forever. Sometimes the world does restore what's been taken from our children, but not always, and not on our timeline. The magic we create as parents—the reindeer feed, the special keys, the carefully crafted stories—works beautifully when we're building wonder. But it has limits when we're trying to heal genuine loss.

What I learned from the Great Flipper Crisis is that sometimes the most honest magic we can offer our children isn't the promise that everything lost will be found, but the assurance that they're strong enough to survive the losing. That love doesn't end when comfort objects disappear. That new attachments are possible, even if they're different from what came before.

New/Old Flipper

Faith is in college now, and one of the Flippers still sits on her dorm room bed—a quiet testament to the enduring power of comfort, even when it comes in unexpected forms. But I still remember the lesson of that Christmas—that parental love is powerful, but not omnipotent. Sometimes the best gift we can give our children isn't the restoration of what was lost, but the modeling of how to keep going when restoration isn't possible.

The magic we make works best when it celebrates what's present, not when it promises to undo what's past. And sometimes, that's enough.

Merry Christmas, and may all your important things stay found—but may you find strength when they don't.

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus...

Well, Midnight Mass has been over for hours, the presents are (finally) all wrapped, the kids are asleep, and I have a few minutes alone with my thoughts as I fall into my Christmas slumber (short as it will be, before the inevitable 6am wake-up call...). In this quiet time, I realize that I've been dreading this Christmas for the last several years. I did not know it would be this particular Christmas, but I have known that it was coming...a Christmas that will be filled with "lasts" as my oldest prepares to go to off to college, and my youngest makes the transition from true believer to Elf. The morning light will bring a Christmas filled with joy but also with some sorrow. I know Christmas can be like that, but this year seems different.

One of my family's Christmas traditions is to read a letter from Santa Claus--before we open presents. Every Christmas that I can remember has included a message from Mr. C. At first, his letter was written to my brother, sisters and me, but more recently Mr. Claus' letter has been addressed to my children (and sometimes me). Year-in and year-out, the content of these letters has largely been the same... Santa always thanks us for his eggnog and cookies (and whatever goodies we left for Rudolph and company). He always mentions the decorations, and how good the house/tree look. He tells us we have been pretty good "kids" (but still admonishes us to try and be better), and then he thanks us for believing, and challenges us to continue to do so.

I couldn't help but wonder, as I finished wrapping our presents tonight, if this year's Santa message would be any different. After all, the youngest of my children (who is almost 11 as I write this) has gone from being an absolute believer in Santa Claus to being a Christmas Elf. To be honest, I think she has known, since well before last Christmas, but was pretending not to know "the secret" for my sake -- For a number of years, she was convinced that the little boy in the Polar Express story was me (which, to be fair, I will admit to believing as well). But I was worried that she would be more than a little disappointed once I explained to her the historic Saint Nicholas, and what he has meant to generations of people.

At the same time, my oldest daughter is a high school senior this year, and she is already getting ready to leave the roost for college. I know she will be home for the holidays, but I admit to feeling a little melancholy knowing that this is a "last Christmas" for us in that regard as well. I am sad to think that my chief elf will be 3,000 miles away during much of the holiday season next year, but I do know that no matter how far she roams, there's still no place like home...

That sentiment is especially true at Christmas-time. This season has always been a magical and special time for me, and I hope for my children too. But I can't help but think that this Christmas (and those in the future) will be different now that my youngest is an Elf. I am worried that our traditions will fall by the way-side, and that "things will be different". But why? Many, maybe even most, of my best holiday memories come from the kitchen and my Mom's wonderful cookie recipes. Those aren't dependent upon the magic of Santa. When I look back, I can see how my Mom did a terrific job of making the holidays special in so many ways. I hope that I have done half as good a job for my kids as she has did for my brother, sisters and me.

Looking back at all of the holiday memories my Mom gave me, the most important was teach me to really believe in the magic of Christmas. So, let me state for the record, that I do truly believe in Santa Claus. I believe that he embodies the magic of Christmas, and I am proud to come from a long line of true believers. To this day, I continue to believe with all of my heart and soul, and to paraphrase Chris Van Allsburg, I can still hear his sleigh bell after all these years...

Part of the reason for my belief is that "becoming an Elf" in my family is a big deal. I still remember how upset my Mom was the day that I came home crying, because a neighbor kid told me that Santa Claus wasn't real. I was just a five or six year-old in Kindergarten/First Grade, and part of the reason she was upset was because her first son was still "too young" to know the secret...But, my Mom took this as an opportunity to induct me to our family's fraternity of Elves. From then on, it was my duty to keep the magic alive for my younger brother and sisters. To continue Saint Nicholas' good works.

I have had this same conversation with each of my children over the years. While the conversation has never ever gotten any easier, each of my children have taken up the banner and grown into pretty good elves -- I certainly have reason to be proud. So, why did I think it would be different this year? I'm still not sure, but I decided to try and prepare for the conversation with my youngest anyway. To that end, I thought I would look for some blogger inspiration -- after all, somewhere, someplace other parents have had the same conversations with their sons and daughters, so there is bound to be some good advice out there...

I have to say that I was immediately dismayed by the (somewhat overwhelming) number of blog posts and comments from parents who feel that the Santa Claus tradition isn't much more than a lie. It could have been my feeble search skills, but the conventional wisdom on this matter seems to be that these adult bloggers either don't want their children to accuse them of lying (seeing it as hypocritical), or they are worried that when revealing "the secret" about Santa Claus, their kids will question veracity of their belief about God and Jesus.

Personally, I find these lines of reasoning to be a bunch of hooey. Parents who have good relationships with their children, shouldn't be worried about being called liars. Part of any good parent-child relationship is how they communicate with each other about important subjects (and yes, I think this is one of those). Often times good communication is about good listening. Actively listening to your children's responses will reduce the chance of misunderstanding, dissatisfaction and discontent that your child may have upon learning this secret.

At the same time, I strongly believe that how you answer the inevitable follow-up questions, the kind that always arise like "what about the Tooth Fairy?" or "what about Jesus?" will have a lot more to do with a child's future religious beliefs. Belief has never been about what you can see, nor what you you are told. Which is why I titled this blog entry after Francis Pharcellus Church's editorial message to Virginia O'Hanlon. Back in 1897, Church got it right when he wrote to Virginia about believing:

Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

While I realize that I am simply a focus group of one, I can't remember being upset with my Mom because she had "lied" to me about Santa Claus. In fact, after getting over the shock of the revelation, I really enjoyed being part of my family's Christmas Elf tradition. And to be completely honest, my belief in Santa Claus has grown stronger since I was enlisted into the fraternity, as has my faith.

In a very round-about-way, I have already answered my question about how to discuss the secret with my daughter. The conversation took place several weeks ago, but followed the same script that my mom used with me, and the same one I used with my two older children. I am sure my daughter was a little upset when I introduced her to our family's Elf tradition, but even though she doesn't have a younger sibling (to keep the secret for) she ended up being a great Elf all during this Christmas season. I am so proud, and glad, that she has become one of my family's long line of believers.

However, if you really find yourself at a loss when it comes to explaining Santa Claus, I highly recommend Mary Anne Kamol's book The Secret of Saint Nicholas, which does a great job of blending the Bishop of Myra history along with Christmas gift-giving, to keep the magic of Christmas honest. She has done, in book form what my Mom did for me (and I hope I have done for my children) initiating the readers into the privileged fraternity of elves and as keepers of one of Santa's true secrets -- the secret only older children may know.

Although I started off lamenting that this was a Christmas of "lasts" for our family, I can now see that it is as much a Christmas of firsts. At once a new beginning and a continuation of tradition for both my youngest and oldest. It is also an opportunity for my son, the middle child, to step up and take his place as chief elf in our family tradition. I believe, with all my heart, that this will be the first of many new and bright Christmases to come...

To that end, I think I will sign off with a quote from the letter Santa Claus left for my children this year... 

I thank each of you for keeping me in your heart all throughout the year. Until I see you again -- have a very Merry Christmas, and remember, always believe! 

Love always!

Mr. C.