“Is there really a Santa Claus”? I ask with trembling lips, on the verge of tears, having pattered out of bed in my flannel nightgown, wanting desperately to have my doubts removed by warm reassurance. Uncle Harry doesn’t have a fireplace in his swish condo and yet our stockings are laid out near the dining room. I cannot figure out the logistics.

My mother, father and Uncle Harry sit on the sofa, my question: W5 interruptus.

All three of them snicker, my mother is ribbed to answer. Incredulous, she stifles a guffaw: “Cia, you don’t still believe in Santa, do you? You’re almost nine years old.”

I am silenced with shame and devastation. My impatient Dad waves me off with his beer, slight Italian accent: “You think he’s that guy at the shopping mall, in the suit?”

No! I’m not an idiot! I know that Santa was a pretend one. And I resented him for being a faker. Cotton beard. I didn’t even tell the mall Santa my real wish list.

“You think some old man living in the North Pole could afford all those toys? Shoving his ass down the chimney? All in one night? Come on…”

Now all three of them were chuckling. I barely choke out: “So, I guess this means the Easter Bunny isn’t real either?”

My Mom shakes her head, embarrassed by my gullibility

“No, honey.”

The mental list tumbles.

“The tooth fairy?”

My Mom shrugs apologetic. I blast: ”Why did you lie to me?!”

She starts in on a tender little tale of creating magic for children, seeing the excitement in their eyes, how it was all for fun…yeah, this is real fun, Mom.

She really doesn’t get me, does she? This was just like the time I was seven and came across a drowsy bee on our carpet and she launched into the “birds and the bees” talk, oh that romantic euphemism for such nasty humiliating business. Babies don’t come from storks, dontcha know. They come from “screwing,” apparently. Mom explains in medical terms…she corrects my school yard terminology, “when you get older it’s rather nice, you’ll enjoy it…” Sicko.

Has everything she’s ever told me been a big fat lie?

I patter back to my sleeping bag in Uncle Harry’s living room, tears streaming down my face. I don’t dare ask Mom if Jesus is a lie too. And God. And the Holy Ghost. That would be too much of a loss in one night. I quietly pledge a renewed vow of faith in the Trinity. They can’t take that away from me too.

I look over at my slumbering sister, five years old, a tangle of long strawberry blonde hair, blissfully unaware of the sham that was her belief system. I shake her awake.

“Guess what, Corralee? Santa isn’t real. It’s Mom and Dad who give us toys.”

She is still half asleep, but understands enough to protest with swelling tears.

“No…!”

“Yes! Do you really think one guy could fill all those stockings in one night? Of course not! Don’t be an idiot!”

Corralee starts to wail as loud as a fire truck and my Mom screams into the room. “Cia! What have you done?! That’s not fair! Don’t wreck it for her!”

Wreck it? I was trying to save her from painful disillusionment.

I shake my head cynically as Mom flutters around my little sister, “No honey, Santa is real, don’t worry, Cia is just being mean. He’s real. Just wait until tomorrow when you see your stocking!”

Hmph.

Now It’s My Turn

Thirty years later, my own daughter is now at the age where she understands Christmas and I am wondering how to address the whole issue of Santa, this being a sore spot for me. I do still wince every time I see a picture of that obese geriatric red imposter, breaking and entering through people’s chimneys. I don’t want to lie to my daughter. But I also don’t want to wreck the fun for her, like I did to my sister.

My husband pulls out the Christmas boxes full of ornaments and lights, always an early decorator. He’s such a kid. He beckons my daughter over. “Look, honey, this is your stocking! We hang it up and then Santa comes down the chimney and fills it with toys!”

I inhale sharply. He looks over at me, curious. No? Did he speak out of turn? He adds, guessing at what he should correct…

“Not just toys, but…oranges and…nuts…and…socks and underwear. Christmas is Jesus’s birthday…what!”

I shake my head. Never mind. I’m being a spoil sport. Let him continue.

“Santa is magic. Christmas is full of fun pretending.”

Aha. What a small but brilliant adjustment. We let her in on the ruse! My daughter dances around with wide exuberant eyes, no excitement lost.

“Christmas Christmas everywhere!” She squeals.

Photo by: Flying Cloud