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.

Two lumps of coal?!

Dutch St. Nick by artist Ila LaFever

Probably my favorite holiday tradition, one that is a little unique to my family (which, looking back, is probably the reason I love it so much), is our annual celebration of St. Nicholas Day on December 6th. Every year, St. Nicholas visits our house on the night of December 5th.  During his visit, he fills our stockings with candies, fruits, and nuts. There is usually a book, a game and a Christmas Tree ornament included in the stash St. Nick brings for us. He also tends to add a stuffed animal along with some school supplies, toiletries, and other "essentials" (underwear and socks in particular). Most of these St. Nicholas gifts are meant to be shared, not hoarded for oneself (so most of the candies, nuts and fruit get co-mingled right away, and used throughout Advent).

St. Nicholas also takes the time to write us a letter each year. The letter is filled with praise for each family member, praise for all of the good things they have done that year, and how they are growing (or have grown) into wonderful young adults. But the letter always ends with a "however." In that paragraph, St. Nick reminds us that we can always be a little bit better, that there are things to improve upon for the next year, and that doing so is our gift back to him.

I know that the kids enjoy this special holiday tradition (as I did when I was their age) in part because very few other people we know celebrate St. Nicholas Day, and that makes it more special (even if they have to explain it to their friends every year). But also, because St. Nick's letter serves to make each of the children each feel special and unique -- which is the part I really like.

So, for those of you who are St. Nick noobs (and if you are, be sure to check out the St. Nicholas Center) here is a crash course...the historic Nicholas was born on the southern coast of what is now modern-day Turkey. He was born into a wealthy Greek family, and was raised to be a devout Christian. When his parents died in an epidemic, the young Nicholas followed Jesus' word to "sell what you own and give the money to the poor," and spent his inheritance to assist the needy, sick and suffering. He became the Bishop of Myra early in the 4th Century, and had a reputation for secret gift-giving.

Although the celebration of St. Nicholas Day is largely unknown in the the United States, there are some enclaves where the tradition carries on. In particular a large swath of the Midwest, between Chicago (where my family is from) and Milwaukee, celebrate St. Nicholas Day each year, in addition to any communities with large populations of Dutch descendants, and it is that tradition that my family largely follows...

In much of Europe (both Christian and Orthodox), parties are held on the eve of St. Nicholas' feast, December 5th, and shoes or stockings left for St. Nicholas to fill during the night. Good children will find treats of small gifts, fruit or nuts, and special Nicholas candies and cookies. This is especially true in The Netherlands, where my grandfather's family is from. In the Dutch tradition, St. Nicholas arrives on a boat from Spain, with his white horse, and servant "Zwarte Pieten". The trio (how can you possibly separate St. Nick from his horse?!) travel the countryside filling the wooden shoes (or at my house their Christmas stockings) of good children, with treats and small toys, but leaving lumps of coal for children who haven't been so well behaved!

Illustration from envelope, Bar-le-Duc, France

Candy, toys, and treats, what could be better than a visit from St. Nick? Yet each and every year, St. Nicholas (unwittingly) fosters some level of angst prior to visiting our house. This has much to do with those lumps of coal. You see, in my family, there is plenty of grey. No one is (or really can be) all good, or all bad, hence the "however" clause in St. Nicholas' letter. In addition to his words, St. Nicholas often leaves things that (he hopes) will remind the kids (and adults) to try and be better people every day of the year. These "naughty" tokens include potatoes, onions and yes, lumps of coal (and my kids would argue the underwear and toiletries as well)...

The problem, that seems to crop up each year, is that while there are four of us in the house -- St. Nick always seems to have five lumps of coal to distribute when he arrives... As a result, my kids have come to see getting the second lump of coal as a "sign" from St. Nick that they have been particularly naughty (at least in comparison to their siblings). Which of course leads to arguments and additional naughty behavior that clearly is not desirable.

Over the last few years, I know that St. Nick has struggled to try and figure out what to do... The first, most obvious solution, was to get rid of one of the lumps of coal. Easy enough, but the one year he tried that, the kids figured him out, and decided to line up their lumps and see who had the biggest lump of coal (because the two smallest lumps are roughly equal to the largest lump in size/mass). Clearly that person was the naughtiest one this year... oi vey!

This year, I am sure St. Nick planned to use a more empirical methodology. Certainly he knows, as do I, which of the kids was most troublesome this year - doesn't he? Perhaps one of the kids is really more deserving of an extra lump this year...Well, my oldest daughter can be quite bossy, and just this week tried to bully her little sister into "behaving" in a certain way (so as not to be embarrassed by her). That would qualify as naughty, but does it deserve a lump of coal? I'm not sure, that seems more like a "two onion" infraction. My son, on the other hand, just this week didn't do the dishes when I asked him to, and decided to fight with me about doing them when I re-asked him to do them. Hmmm, that one seems more like an extra potato offense. Well, what about my youngest daughter? She tried to get her brother into trouble just today, by tattling on him... is that worthy of an extra lump of coal? Maybe not... but I think and extra pair of underwear would be in order!

Wow, I started to realize just how tough it is for St. Nick to do his job! Before bed last night, I thought a lot about what he might do, but it was late, and I was tired, so I left my thoughts until morning. I knew that reading St. Nick's letter to the kids in the morning would reveal how he decided to assign coal lump number 5...

Morning came too early today, and my youngest was up bouncing on the bed and begging me to go downstairs so she could open her stocking. All of the kids know that before we open St. Nick's presents we have to read his letter together. So they sat on the couch and I began to read. The letter went over well, the kids nodded and smiled, surely St. Nick got things right this year! Even the "however" paragraphs got nods of approval, until the last one, which was directed to me, and read:

You have done such a good job taking care of the kids and making sure that they are growing up well, and I am very proud of you for that.

However, sometimes you have the tendency to want all of the children to be a little more grown up than they really are (which is why you get the extra lump of coal this year...). Remember, they are all good kids, and while they sometimes make mistakes, so do we all. This year, I would like to see you use your big heart to relax and enjoy the kids, in the moment. To not worry so much about everything having to be just, equal, and fair, just enjoy them for who, what, and where they are.

Until next year, I love you all,

St. Nick

St. Nick's words to me are very true. This holiday season, and for the rest of the year, I promise to do my best to live up to his "however."

St. Nicholas Day is one of those traditions that was passed down from my Mom to me. It connects me to my extended family, our cultural heritage (a little bit at least), and makes me remember many of the good times I had growing up (thank you Mom and St. Nick). Our celebration has also has created some wonderful memories for my children, and me. Despite (or maybe because of) St. Nick's "however" this year, I really hope that I am passing on, to my three children, what my Mom created for me. I hope that they will look back and continue the St. Nicholas tradition for their (future) families and have years and years of fond memories as well.

Hey, and maybe next year, I'll only get one lump of coal :)