Santa

As a child, I fell into the agnostic camp on the subject of gravity, but I was a full and fervent believer in Santa Claus. Perhaps the two were related; to believe the reindeer stuff, one has to have a healthy disregard for several scientific principles. Whatever the reason, I arrived at the age of twelve still believing in Santa. Finally, as my father and I cleaned the kitchen that Christmas day, he broke it to me that there was no Santa. He was very gentle and philosophical, talking about the spirit of Christmas that lives in our hearts, while I was wondering what the hell he was talking about—no Santa? My world was shaken.

I shouldn't have been surprised. Always an insomniac, I found it doubly hard to sleep on Christmas Eve. After we were hustled to bed, the pattern was always the same. My father, who in his younger years had a short fuse and a colorful vocabulary, cussed his way through the assembly of four children's toys, while my mother filled the stockings, works of art and love. When that was finished, they played with our toys for awhile, usually breaking one or two. I thought of Santa as a very clumsy or careless guy, but he was so generous, I was willing to let that pass. Even though I heard the cussing, the banging, and the giggling, I was so steadfast in my belief that I just wished they would shut up and go to bed so Santa could come.

When Claire came along, I didn't want to lie to her, but I wasn't willing to deprive her of the magic that I had experienced as a child. So I decided to take my cues from her: "What do YOU think?" I'd ask. But she was horrified by the idea of a stranger breaking into our house, toys or no toys. One Christmas Eve she wailed for hours, asking me to keep Santa out. If toys needed to be brought, Granddaddy could do it. At the age of four, she finally rejected the story all together, although she patiently let me believe whatever I wanted.

I took the same tack with Elizabeth, the child who is terrified that robbers lurk on our deck nightly, but who has no problem with a jolly intruder wandering around our house while we're sleeping. She carefully covers the hospitality base with cookies, Coke, and carrots for the reindeer. But she doesn't buy the chimney part of the story for a very good reason. Each year she tried to stay awake to see Santa and failed. But then came the year that she did stay awake, lying on the bedroom floor and looking under the door. She is adamant that she saw him come in through the front door and eat the cookies. And she has stuck to that story for several years, not a detail different. She saw and she knows. I worry that someday her children will get no toys on Christmas because she is so sure that Santa will deliver.

At the age of ten, Elizabeth lost a tooth and put it under her pillow. "You know," she mused, "I just don't think the tooth fairy is real." It's a bittersweet moment, this leaving behind of childish things. "So who puts the money under your pillow?" I asked cautiously. "I think it's Santa Claus," she replied firmly. And who am I to argue with that? After all, she's the one who saw him.