Your opinion of my grasp on reality may change after reading this story. But I will be honest with you. I believed in Santa Claus until almost age 12. My mother had to break it to me in May of 1998, a good seven months before Christmas. I cried. You see, I’m A Believer. In a sense, I still am. Read about my Santa Claus Theory towards the bottom of the page here.
When I was a kid, I wrote very nice letters to Santa. I would ask about Mrs. Claus and the reindeer, and I would wish them well. I’d ask Saint Nick how his summer had been. I’d write and tell him what kind of cookie I planned on leaving next to the tree. I’d give him three options of gifts I wanted.
Santa wrote me back twice. The postmark said it was mailed from North Pole, Alaska, which is an actual place. I took my letters to Co-op (which is this once a week thing for home school kids so they can learn to be social) to prove to my older sister’s friend that Santa really does exist. She tried to tell me it wasn’t real, but I had proof. That letter in my hand was like the Bible. Written evidence. I bet if I dug around in an old shoe box I have, I could find the letter. Pretty sure I kept it.
So when I was eleven, I sort of started to think maybe there wasn’t a Santa, because my mom would say things like “he exists for those who believe in him.” And I learned early on that all those fake Santas at the mall are actual employees of Kris Kringle who go and listen to the children, because there’s no possible way Santa can be at so many malls in December when he’s got to run things back at his shop.
And okay, maybe I should tell you the whole story. The day of dashed hope was May 12, 1998, because May 12th is my half-birthday. I was exactly 11 and a half years old, and my mom thought this was too old to believe. So she sat me down in this chair and held me and started the whole thing off with “You’re getting older…you’re growing up…blah blah blah….Santa isn’t real.” And then she gave me this tiny green notebook that is attached to a leather cord so you can wear it around your neck. I still have it. It was my consolation prize. Hardly worth it.
Part of the reason I didn’t want to say that I didn’t believe was because then I would stop getting my present from Santa. So you know what my mom did after she burst the news? That year I got my present from my parents and a Santa present. Because I was all “if you hadn’t ruined it for me, I would still believe, and I would still get a present from Santa.” So my mom bought me presents from Santa all the way through college.
But let’s regress back to middle school. That’s when Santa tripped the alarm in our house. My sister and I were snuggled in my bed together. This is back when we each had our own bed at our old house, but as was tradition, we snuggled in together on Christmas Eve. So there we are, sleeping, when we hear this alarm sounding. Of course we both wake up. It’s like 5:36 in the morning. I say “guess Santa’s here.” I’m 13, my sister’s 14, and we creep out of my bed and sneak into the hallway. At our old house, we had a family room and a living room. The dining room separated the two. The tree was always put in the living room because it is the front room of the house, and it has an actual fire place and mantle. My sister and I creep out into the family room, and we peek our heads over the half wall to scan through the dining room and to see what is happening.
My mom is rushing out of her bedroom in her pajamas, going to punch the alarm code in to make it stop. What happened was, it was a windy night and the power had gone out while we were sleeping, but when it turned back on, this re-set the alarm and made it go off. Since everybody was already awake, we decided to start Christmas morning right then and open presents, though we all took naps around noon.
But me? I’m certain Santa was up our chimney just as mom was punching in that alarm code. He had to leave lickety split because our house wasn’t safe. He does exist.
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