Being a mall Santa inspired me to become a dad

I first realized I wanted to be a father in my early 30s, when a newspaper editor sent me to a mall to be Santa for a day.

The understanding came as a shock to an unmarried bachelor who figured he’d dodge Pampers and tuition payments, and just sort of skate through life as a solo act.

But there I was, up on Santa’s throne, looking into all those kids’ eyes, beholding absolute innocence unbound. I’d never really encountered a pre-beaten-down human before, all shiny and hopeful. It startled and captivated me.

And I liked recognizing there could be more roles in life than just being someone’s son.

I should say, however, that as momentous as it was, my Santa day had some bumps — not unlike parenting itself.

Trouble came from the Santa wrangler who was in charge of procuring Saint Nick wannabes. He was upset because I was being foisted on him without benefit of “training.” The guy declared pedantically that a person needs two full weeks of schooling to be a Santa. (I imagined the final exam with questions like, “Fill in the blank: Santa’s catchphrase is, “Ho-Ho-?”)

As the dubious wrangler handed me the padding and red suit, he sternly issued three taboos, a list of inviolable Santa thou-shalt-nots:

One: Though you may feel compelled to, do not, under any circumstances, actually say, “Ho-Ho-Ho.” Apparently, the recitation of those three syllables is so spot-on catalyzing that it revs up children beyond their capacity to control themselves.

Two: Eschew promises. If you guarantee little Danny a puppy and he winds up unwrapping a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle of Monet’s “Garden at Giverny” instead, the tantrum the kid kicks up will be nothing compared to what retributive parents will do to mall personnel.

Three (and this is the most important rule of all): Never, never, never under any circumstances allow your Santa self to be seen while the prior-shift Santa is still on the mall floor. Children spotting two Santas at once will grow up to become foulmouthed miscreants, or maybe even newspaper reporters.

I said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I got it, don’t worry.” And I readied myself to climb into Santa’s Big Chair.

Unfortunately, that particular day I’d eaten chili for lunch, a poor choice for close-in communication. Afraid of offending, I chewed gum before the elves ushered over the first children.

When I removed the Juicy Fruit, I forgot I was wearing a big, white beard, and the gum got stuck between my mouth and chin. So, the newspaper photographer I was with offered me a knife he always carried in his boot. (He must have seen two Santas splitting a pizza in a mall food court in his childhood, setting him on the wrong road.)

Anyway, there was St. Nick, standing next to his throne, hacking at his facial hair with a shiny, sharp blade, and quietly cursing. A little boy dropped his pretzel, then started screaming. The Santa wrangler looked like he’d swallowed paint.

But the show went on. Before she put her son on my lap, the very first mom set the tone by wiping lint off my leg without even looking at me, treating me like the prop I was.

Still, the kids were sweet, and their belief in me (or, rather, the icon I represented) launched my parent epiphany.

It would take a while, but an 8-month-old Central American girl eventually came into my life through adoption, and set me on a fatherly course.

I’ve been thinking about all this now because last week my daughter turned 18, a month after my own dad — and original Santa — died at 88.

One Christmas, my father was laying out presents in the dark, and tripped over my train set. He fell into the tree, looking like he was doing the mambo with it. My father filled the Silent Night with loud, uncivilized pronouncements. My mother couldn’t stop laughing, and that’s how my suddenly awakened brother and I recognized that Santa receives gifting help from parents.

Solicitous of his granddaughter in ways he never was with his boys, my construction worker dad amazed us by channeling the Kardashians and engaging a personal shopper at a nearby Nordstrom to help him buy my kid Christmas presents.

“Look what Santa left at my house,” he’d say to her.

Not long after my dad’s funeral, my daughter revealed that she’d suspected at a startlingly young age that it wasn’t Santa who brought presents. She’d only played along because it seemed important to her grown-ups.

That was her gift to us, I guess, allowing us to believe we were manufacturing magic.

This is my first Christmas with my father gone and my daughter readying herself to start college, on the path toward living life on her own terms.

While I understand that these transitions are simply part of the human journey, they still feel like cataclysmic upheavals to me, raw and wrenching.

As usual, I over-Santa-ed for this Christmas, piling the rug beneath the tree with stuff I needed to get more than she needs to have.

People still congratulate me and my ex for having adopted a child from impoverished circumstances, as though it was a selfless act of noblesse oblige.

Truthfully, I wanted a kid. Period. I’m not sure why, exactly: to feel fulfilled, to give and receive unconditional love, to focus on something that wasn’t just me.

Whatever, the years with my daughter have taught me that my Santa-suited instinct was right when I first discerned in a mall that becoming a dad was something I had to do.

And I came to love my girl more than football, or lasagna, or myself.