Wasn't Christmas so much more fun when Santa Claus existed? What a fantastical idea that one man in a red suit delivered presents to little kids all over the globe in one night. And that he flew around in the skies thanks to the magical powers of eight reindeer. Ever since I discovered that this was just a crazy made-up story adults tell their children to trick them into being good all year, there was just something missing in all of the following Christmases.
My parents did an exceptional job creating the existence of Santa when I was a kid. One year, they had me write a note to Santa to set next to a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. In the morning, they had shown me that someone took a bite out of one of the cookies and drank half of the milk. My dad even disguised his handwriting to scribble a short 'thank you Jean-Marie' at the end of the note I left. I absolutely freaked out. In my tiny and imaginative brain, I could picture clearly the big guy picking up one of those cookies and eating it, his suit brilliant red in the light of the Christmas tree, his big black boots shiny as can be. I thought, Wow, Santa Claus was standing right here in my house just a few hours ago.
The craftiest performance happened one Christmas Eve when I was around five or six-years-old. It was one of the only Christmas Eves my grandma had spent at our house, and now of course I know it was to see my reaction to this brilliant production they all set up for me. So, at the house we lived in at the time, my dad had built me a treehouse and painted it and put shutters on it so it matched the big house. It had 4 windows, a door, a porch, roof and a sandbox underneath -- the real deal. When it got to be late in the evening, my sister went up into the treehouse with one of my toys: a mini Mickey Mouse spotlight I had that changed colors. She went into the treehouse with it, turned the color to red and started shining it out the window and toward my bedroom.
My mom brought me up to the window and pointed excitedly, "Look Jean-Marie! Look out in your treehouse!" As I'm told, my eyes got as big as saucers and my little heart started beating at a rapid pace. I think I was probably struck with fear more than anything else, as Santa was right outside and I wasn't in bed yet."Rudolph must think you're out in your treehouse!" my mom whispered. The red light then moved from inside the treehouse out onto the porch, and I really started freaking out. What if he just leaves because he thinks I'm not at home?!
My grandma then grabbed me, no doubt exchanging smiles with my mom at that point, and said "You better get in bed, Gigi, if you want to get presents!" I think that was the point at which I jumped in my bed and pulled the covers over my head, hoping that Santa would know to look for me in the big house. I really have to admit, it was a great idea.
When I found out about the Santa myth, it wasn't really because anyone told me about it, per se; I kind of figured it out on my own by accident. I'm not quite sure how old I was, but I remember playing in the basement with some toys when I caught a glimpse of some wrapped presents semi-hidden in the corner of the room. Not that I was necessarily being nosy... I mean, when you're a kid and you see presents, you want them, right? So I walked over, cautious of the possibility that the basement door could open at any moment and my mom could come down, and sat in front of the presents. I felt the boxes, shook a few, but that wasn't quite enough to satisfy my curiosity. I then took one of the gifts and very carefully lifted up one of the corners of the paper. It was a bike helmet. Hmm, that's probably for me, I thought. I think I did that to at least one other package, but I tried not to get excited yet because Christmas was still a few days away.
Sure enough, on Christmas morning when I raced downstairs and we started unwrapping gifts, I recognized the few from the basement that were supposed to be from "Santa." I didn't say anything about my earlier discovery as I tried to figure out in my head just what in the heck was going on. Later, my mom tried to pass it off as "Santa got busy so he told me to get a few of your gifts," but I kind of figured out the charade at that point.
I wasn't that upset about it. It's not like I wouldn't be getting gifts anymore; they just wouldn't be coming from a fat man sliding down our chimney anymore. Isn't it amazing, though, how mold-able young minds are? "But mom, if Santa's so fat, how does he get down the chimney with that big bag?" Moms and dads answer, "Because it's magic." Well of course! Why did I even need to ask?
To pay my parents back for all those years of lying to me about Santa, I started a new Christmas morning tradition: I would wake up around six a.m., quietly sneak downstairs and put my 'Chipmunk Christmas Album' cassette tape in the stereo, and then blast it at full volume to wake everyone up. And if my mom ever caught me trying to stealthily open gifts under the tree and re-wrap them on Christmas Eve, she threatened to not let me have them. What's the fun in that?
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