Santa Claus

My propensity for overreaction coupled with my somewhat alarming gullibility made for a pretty intense combination when I was growing up.

Given this, it was no surprise that at twelve-years-old I still fully believed in Santa Claus and all the magic that surrounded him, even though my friends had known better for years.

They would ridicule me for clinging to my childish belief and try to convince me that my faith in Santa was misplaced.

When I questioned my mother, she remained noncommittal and told me that if I believed Santa was real, that was all that mattered. In retrospect, this should have been my first clue. Instead, I believed her. That did not stop my friends from trying to dissuade me at every opportunity.

Eventually, I had enough of their blasphemy. Where there was smoke, there was usually fire. I knew that I had to find out once and for all if there was any truth to their accusations.


I confronted my mother.

I watched as she shifted her weight uncomfortably, not wanting to destroy my childhood fantasies, but unable to play along any longer.

She took a deep breath and, exhaling a sigh, she conceded.


"No, Jessie. Santa’s not real."

I stood there for a moment, digesting the bombshell that just went off in my face.

There was nothing I could do about it, really. It was just something I had to get used to the idea of.

I was inconsolable and lost in silent grief. I drifted through my daily routine, unable to focus on anything outside of my desperate sadness.

I even volunteered to take away my own recess. It seemed macabre to play with the other children. My teacher would not oblige, feeling it was in my best interest to get fresh air and spend social time with my friends. 

I did my best.

This went on for days until I discovered that there are only so many times you can wash a funeral shroud before it falls apart (note to readers - do not run the hat and veil through the washing machine). Back in my normal street clothes, I had no choice but to rejoin the living. 

It was easier said than done.

I dreaded the idea of Christmas. It would never be the same again. My mother had warned me several times that because my younger brother and sisters still believed in Santa, it was my job to keep up the charade.

As we decorated the house that December, I was dead inside.

My spirit was impossible to lift and the passing of time did nothing for me. On Christmas Eve I participated in the same rituals I always had, but with a very different attitude. I wrote my letter to Santa with my siblings but it just felt like a scam now.

I couldn't even put out cookies and milk without feeling as though my every move was dishonest. 

When I went to bed that night I was disillusioned with the world. When I woke up on Christmas morning however, something changed. There were butterflies in my stomach. I was excited. How could this be? I knew this was all a charade and yet... there was something in me that couldn't wait to get out of bed and see if there were presents under that tree.

I crept down the hallway on silent feet, careful not to wake anyone else. Edging toward the family room, the soft glow of the tree lights welcomed me. I held my breath as I entered the room.

It was perfect, exactly as it had been every year. It finally occurred to me that my priorities on Christmas had been wrong all along. It was about way, way more than Santa. I knew I would be okay.

Until it dawned on me a bit later...