This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2014, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

Editor's note: Robert Kirby is on vacation. This is a reprint of an earlier column.

"Santa Claus is watching you."

Parents still use this archaic warning to keep their kids in line during the holidays. Upon hearing it, trusting children feel their bowels turn to ice. I think it's a mistake.

First of all, it's coercion. And it doesn't work. Only a kid destined for a career in customer service will care enough to completely behave between reminders.

But more importantly, the Claus reminder can actually have the opposite effect. Some kids will start thinking about how bad they've been and realize that they have nothing to lose.

Lying in my bed one Christmas Eve, I listened to the faint sound of my parents moving around downstairs. Tennessee Ernie Ford sang "Silent Night" on the Hi-Fi. The soft glow of tree lights was visible on the stairs. Christmas was just hours away.

It should have been a happy moment. Instead, I couldn't stop thinking about all the horrible things I'd done during the year, stuff that Santa had seen me do.

Most of my crimes were only borderline bad; things like breaking windows, tormenting cats, putting a dog food sandwich in my brother's lunch box, and stripping down to my underpants on top of the school monkey bars.

But there were plenty of felonies as well. During the summer, I had shot Wally Lickle in the forehead with a lug nut from a slingshot and told everyone that it was an accident even though I'd done it on purpose.

Apparently I couldn't stop being bad about it. Even at the eleventh hour, with Santa virtually in the air, my only regret was that Wally had survived the incident with no ill effect other than a mild stutter.

I wasn't getting %#$!@* for Christmas.

Is there a level of despair more profound than being nine and knowing that Santa Claus carries a serious grudge? Tortured and alone, I came very near to giving up that night.

And then there was hope. Gradually I realized what every bad kid needs to know about Christmas: that Santa Claus was no longer any good to me alive.

My little brother was good. He deserved presents even though I didn't. Santa would therefore still be coming to our house. What if — and I actually shrugged there in the dark — he were to fall off the roof?

The police would surely come. Maybe even a reporter. But at least some of the toys found with the body would be mine.

I sat all night by the window with a slingshot and a lug nut that had survived the Lickle investigation. Nothing happened.

In the morning I got some Lincoln Logs, pajamas and a BB gun. I haven't worried about Santa watching me since.

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