“Mom, Santa is real, right?” My daughter asked me imploringly, looking up with wide eyes. These things always happen at inopportune moments. Lying, that is.
“Of course he is, “I smiled convincingly, putting bagels into the grocery cart and hoping I was pulling it off. A look of relief spread through her face and I thought, uh-oh, when she finds out it’s not going to be pretty. She’s five, and I am hoping the magic of Santa can stick around for a few more years. My son is eight, and he is still holding out hope beyond hope. I think he might have inkling, and I know some of his friends have crossed to the other side, but he comes up with creative ways in which to still believe.
“On my globe, the whole top section is just a big white blur. There is no mention of Santa anywhere. So obviously he is hiding up there. He has…a cloaking device.” I agree, that must be it. Throughout time Santa has always had a super high-tech cloaking device. Let’s go with that one. I think he is worried that if he admits this is all a farce, the presents will dry up. This makes logical sense. But I believed right up until the night I found out.
I loved Christmas Eve even more than Christmas day, as everyone was relaxed and happy, excited about presents to come, and we had an amazing family meal. That night, my parents let me open one present, which seemed like a bending of the rules; one I happily complied with. One present was super-exciting; imagine what several would be like? I used my inherent sixth-sense stuffy detector (find a soft and squishy present) to pick out something I could sleep with that night, a new friend. I’d inhale the mix of fake fur and chemicals and think, this is the best night ever. Santa is coming.
I knew Santa was real, ever since Christmas last year at Grandma’s. We’d all gone to midnight mass, even me, in my pajamas. The Catholic troops marched through the snow up to the church, which looked even more impressive and humongous at night. The peaked roof was lit under the streetlights, as a gentle snow swirled about the building. Inside, the mass held messages of joy and love, and the incense was thick and made me sleepy. My mom reminded me that when we kneel, this was not the time to sink my teeth into the wooden pew in front of me, something I was prone to doing, mostly out of boredom. But then, in my haze, I heard something. The tinkling of bells outside, growing louder, and then hoof beats, HOOFBEATS on the top of the Church. The priest said he’d gotten word that Santa was making a stop on the top of the Church to fix a runner on his sleigh. He wouldn’t be coming down because he was off delivering presents, and if we went home to bed right away we might get some too. HOLY CRAP I thought, that was definitely his sleigh. But how? The roof was….miles high. I’d heard the hoof beats though, heard the sliding of wood, it had to be him. Only Santa could land on peaked roofs and not fall off. The deal was sealed.
Imagine my surprise to awaken this particular Christmas Eve. I heard the rustling of presents and giggling and thought, THIS IS IT, OMIGOD, I am going to see Santa! I couldn’t help myself, I loved His Jolly Countenance so much. In my head, he was a friend I had known a long time. We weren’t close, but he knew me, knew what I wanted, and knew that I had mostly been good, besides the pew biting and other minor infractions. So I tiptoed out of my bedroom and peeked with one eye around the corner to where the tree was. Imagine my surprise to not see anyone in red, but instead my Dad’s hairy butt-crack hanging out of his denim jeans as he shoveled presents under the tree. My mom sat next to him, smiling, handing him things. They were obviously having a good time, and maybe even drinking, but this…this was not Santa. Or was it. It was. This was Santa. Mom and Dad were Santa. It hit me like a ton of bricks and I flew to bed before I could be discovered. The magic dried up and I was left with the searing image of Dad’s rear end for time immemorial.
But I lived. The next morning I emerged to find the presents still had the same appeal, the ripping of paper and shredding of bows was still more fun than anything, and the look on my parents faces as they gave us things they probably couldn’t afford was still magic. I lived, and my kids will too. I’ll just remember to yank up my pants when dishing out the goods, just in case.