The Year of Living Santalessly

There comes a moment in some children’s lives when they have to face a hard truth: there is no Santa Claus. I learned this in a cruel and heartless manner from a kid my own age, but I kept the secret of my newfound knowledge to myself for an entire year. I’d forgotten the how and when of my dark initiation into the world of reality, but oh the wonder of writing. As I sat down to muse about my year of living Santalessly, the memory emerged from a hidden spot in my brain, one not unlike those my mother used to find to hide away untold unwrapped Christmas presents.

It happened in Mrs. Redman’s first-grade class. I was huddled with all the other bundled-up first-graders at the closed classroom door, waiting to march homeward for the holiday, when little Robert Whatever-His-Name-Was stood among us and delivered the telegram of death. I can still see him so clearly. Ruddy chipmunk cheeks, a slight speech impediment. Blond hair, blue eyes and a noticeably triangular head. We must have all been talking about what Santa might bring us when Robert shouted out disdainfully, “It’s not Santa Claus. There’s no Santa Claus. It’s your parents!” I stood motionless, wordless. Could it be? What about the reindeer? 

My first Christmas, with sister, dad and brother. Mom on camera. Is it just me or does my dad look like Paul Newman?

I was the youngest in my family, the “baby”. Christmas was very big for us, and I loved it. My parents came to life in a particular way as they put the holiday on. My mother’s decorations, some now adorning my own home, were spectacular. And her handmade Christmas cards still smile up at me from inside an old suitcase of memories. (Yes, I literally have one. Do you?).

It’s a wonder to me now how I actually slept through the night, the anticipation a sweet pain pulsing through me. But it turned into pure adrenalin in the early morning and launched me down the stairs to see what Santa Clause had left under and around our tree.

Even though I’d been told the ugly truth in my fateful first-grade year, I was simply unable and unwilling to tell my family. We’d been talking all season about what Santa might bring us, me. They played along, boosting my belief in the jolly fat man who would fit down our chimney. (I don’t think I ever quite swallowed that bit whole, but why quibble.) What I did now know for sure was that they wanted feverishly to pretend on my behalf that Santa was on his way. In light of my newfound knowledge, this felt quite touching. And while I was certain I was mature for my age (based on I don’t know what), I just didn’t know how to break it to them. Wouldn’t they be horribly disappointed? Embarrassed even? So while they pretended for me, I pretended for them—the standard requirements of a regulation sit-com, right there on South Oakland Street in St. Johns, Michigan.

We would drive to Portland every Christmas Eve—the town where we had lived before, where my parents both grew up—to celebrate with the rest of the family. And when we got back home, voila! Santa had hit us early, long before dawn. He just knew. So that Christmas Eve as we pulled into the driveway, I remember my sister saying to me, “I wonder if Santa’s been here yet, Mar.” Now that’s love.

And yes he had. I ran to the window before we even went through the front door. There stood the Polly Anna doll I’d been coveting. I could see her unmistakable silhouette through the moonlit darkness of our living room. I don’t remember the rest of the night, but I suspect I didn’t really care who put that doll there.

My Mom and our tree.

The big, final reveal came on Christmas Eve the following year. We must have stayed home that night for some reason instead of making the drive to Portland. I was sitting in the den with my parents when my mother, with very intentional casualness, said to my dad, “Let’s go out and get some Pepsi after the kids go to bed.” Now that just wasn’t normal. Pepsi was never an emergency in my house. So I went to bed quickly and kept my ears wide open. I heard them leave and I heard them come back again. When the car rolled into the gravel driveway in the front of our house, facing my bedroom window (not very careful sleuthing!), I darted over and caught them red handed. There they were, my mom and dad, carrying armfuls of toys and games and stuff. I didn’t see any Pepsi. 

I gleefully gathered up my brother and sister to tell them, “Look! Mom and Dad are sneaking presents into the house!” But they already knew the drill. I don’t even remember if they both actually got out of bed to come spy with me. The wonder of that sight was something to me though. I didn’t have words for it then and as I remember it with my child mind, I really don’t have them now either. It was just that: wonder-full, wonder-filled. Like witnessing magic, the solving of a mystery. Confirmation of Robert Whoever’s unwelcome announcement the year before. 

I don’t know if that’s the Christmas I got my beloved Golferino game, or the year we had two Christmas trees—one large in the living room and one small in the dining room. The small one I understood to be mine. I don’t know if I made that up or it was designated so, but on Christmas morning under that tree was a beautiful blue Schwinn bicycle (no training wheels) and the popular doll of the year balanced cleverly on its handle bars, ripe for the picking. Sometimes it’s good to be the baby.

Presents don’t hold the same magic or importance as time goes on, for most of us anyway. That diminishing can feel like a loss at first, and technically it is. But there’s greater joy in other things: the perfect cup of coffee; a brilliant movie playing remarkably close to where you live; a warm kiss on a cold night. Getting to develop and evolve—and, yes, mature (I now bristle at the word. Once a baby…?)—is a privilege, a stroke of luck. I see old people stuck in ancient games they seemingly could surrender but don’t, and I’m grateful for the chance to know myself better, have friendships that grow longer, and a Christmas list that is decidedly shorter. As I recently read, if we get the chance to slow down, be aware, and be right where we are, sometimes we find out that we already have everything we need.

Here’s hoping you find that you have everything you need this holiday season, and if not, maybe there’s something waiting right around the close corner of the New Year with your name on it, with a big, bright, invisible bow and a special handmade card just for you.