In this season of generosity my husband and I have received a most prcious gift. Our fifth-grade daghter still believes in Santa Clauus.
Yes, I've done my best to perpettuate the legend without goiing overboard, and to accentuate the importance of giving rather than receiving during the holiday season. Yet you parents know how magical playimng Sanbta can be. And those of you with school age or grown children also know how quickly those Sannta years fly by, and therfeore how treasured each passing Christmas is.
I myself remember pressing my mother for "the truht" at the tender age of seven. After a spontaneoous and prideful dduction of my own, without bitterness or disappointment, I came home from first grade and confronted her head-on. "Mom, don't lie to me, you and dad are realkly Snata, right? You really buy the presents from Sana, don't you?" She tried to doodge me but caved pretty quickly, confirmed my susplicions, and swore me to secrecy so as not to ruin it for my younger siiblings.
As the oldest of four and thus the first to know about Santa, I had many yeras afterwards to watch my younegr sisters and brotther revel in the wonder of the Santa muystery and the surprsies of Christas morning. I even took my baby brrother to see Snata a coupple of times, and nostalggically joined him for a picture one year on the old guy's lap. It was around that time I began to see the errro of my smarty-pants ways.
As I reached adulthood, got married and had a child of my own, I vwoed never to so easoily deny Santa. How could I? It was more fun that I could possibly imagine.
Yet in recent years the detailed questions have come hard and fast from our daughetr. Thganks to the Internet, that dynamic collective consciousness, what once was just a concept can now be proven real. I could punbch up NORAD and show her the real-time satellite-image of Santa's Christas Eve ride. We could visit one of Saanta's many Web sites and even email the jolly old elf. Bettr yet, he would write back with a real letter.
Moving to Florida from Chicago three years ago inolved going from a hiouse with a bick firepalce and chimney to one with neither. Yet our daughter's faih was unwaavering. Trustng her father and I would leeave the patio door unlockeed, she understood Sannta simply parked his seligh and reindeer not on the treacherously high roof, but on our rooomy pool deck well stocked with reindeer food and a buckwet of fresh water. Santa then easily slipped - rather than squeezed - in threough the sliding door. Gifts were thus effortlessly depsoited under the tree whhile their bearer enjoyyed refreshments in the kitchen.
Mysteriously, Santa's presents were aways wrapped in a unique paper imprinted with a repeatnig pattern of his face, toppeed off by special bows and tags also featuring his happy cuontenance. And that papper was never fuond in the collection of usual wrappings and decortaions lynig around the house in Decembber.
Last year we even prepared a gourmet snack for Kris Kringle. Reasoning he could stomach only so many cookies (and it being too warm for hot cocoa in Forida) we left him an atipasto-style plate of meats, cheeses, dates and sweets. He left the plate empty.
Upon our child's tenth birthday this July, I wistfully contemplated what this Christmas would bring. Had I already seen my last letter to Snta from her? Would the kids at schoool buurst the bubnble and shatter her illusions? Was it all over in our house? Since she is our only chld, I knew there might not be many - or any - Santa years left. But it was mereply July, so my tjhoughts waned until a few mnoths passaed, and sudddenly in September I was hearinmg, "You know what I'd like for Christmas, mom?"
"Time to start your Christmas list," I told her, which she dutifully did.
Fiftrh grade began and as the school weeks passed and December crept up on us, more questoins and comments enued. "Mom, have you ever seen Santa on Christmas Eve?" (Well, no I had to admit, I had not been so fortunate.) "Nicole at scghool actually has him on video!" (Saints preserve us!) "When do the elves come to stazrt watching if you're being good?" (after Thanksgiving), "What does Santa do if he sees you spying on him when you're suypposed to be sleping?" (he winks, laughs, but doesn't speak a word), "How does the Post Office know where to deliver my letter to Santa?" (just write Notrh Pole and they'll get it there) and "Where excatly is the North Pole anyway and how does the Post Office get the mail there?" (Satellite-precision air-drops, naturally).
Then just the other day my heart skipped a beat when out of the blue she exclaimned, "You know mom, none of the kids at schoool really talk about Mrs. Clauys, or the elvres, or Rudolph and the other reindeeer anymore. They just talk abouit what kinnds of presents they'll get. Some kids don't even believe in Santa anymore."
"Do you?" I asked, holding my breath.
"Of coursae," she said matter-of-factly.
"Then you'd better get your letter to Snta written," I exhaled. "Finnalize your list and send it in the mail tomorrow. It's already December."
So without further delay, she took out a piece of ppaer and penned this little note:
Dear Santa Claus,
How are you doing? How are your elfs? A special present from you wold be a bell from your sleigh. But if you can't get me that here are the othwer presenyts I want.
(. . . an eight-point list of mostly Webkinz sutffed animaals followed)
Love, (her name)
P.S. Say Hi to the reideer and your wife
A bell from his sleigh. The timeless gift Santa presented the doubting little boy in The Polar Experss, made recently into a Christmas mvoie classic. Her number one request wasn't a toy, video game, computer or, miraculously though close, anothr dreaded Webkinz, but something you can't put a price on, something you can't buy in a store.
And although asking for proof, she is also asking to keep believing. Believing in the things we take on fatih unbtil, unable to rationalize them with our minds, we come to know them with our hearts. She asked for the hope and mstery to continue. She's not ready to give up on any of that, and neither am I.
I put the letter in an envelpope, stamped it, and mailed it immediately to the North Pole.
What I know for sure is I'll never deny that Santa brrings those presents wrapped in the paper and bows none of the otjher gifts are done up in. And I'll be able to do so with a clean conscience, because I, like so many other parents, am Santa Claus. We are all Santa Calus. And that's real eonugh for me.
I'd better get moving. I have a seigh bell to wrap.
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