There are three stages of a man's life: He believes in Santa Claus, he doesn't believe in Santa Claus, he is Santa Claus.
[Spoiler Alert]
I was never involved in a formal conversation regarding the nonexistence of Santa Claus. Not to mention the tooth fairy or leprechaun. My dad never sat me down and said, "Don't waste that milk and cookie." My mom never looked me in the eye and said, "Don't leave that tooth under your pillow." Let me be clear -- the absence of this talk with both of their children was not a mental lapse or my parents' failing some sort of "reality check" lesson in a parenting book. In fact, this may have been one of their most honorable decisions to date (and they've made some pretty good ones). Year after year (of my early childhood) my faith in Santa was only strengthened by the years' bests waiting for me under the tree. Tooth after tooth was celebrated in all its glory. But it was so much more than gifts and money. It was the uninhibited bliss of childhood.
I used to mail letters to Santa Claus. To this day, I still don't know who took those envelopes out of the mailbox. I distinctly remember one Christmas eve, I was in bed with my parents and my mom tapped me and said, "Did you hear that on the roof? It was the patter of reindeer hooves." My stomach felt like it was eating itself and my heart could very well have pounded out of my chest. Perspiration may or may not have been involved. I mean, Santa Claus was on my roof!
My belief in these great jovial beings was not prematurely terminated. I guess it was that whole "it will happen when it happens" sentiment that kept my parents from interfering. There are plenty of metaphorical Scrooges in this world for my parents to have not needed to step in.
I cannot pinpoint a date or even an age at which I stopped believing in Santa Claus and company. No isolated moment or day. It fizzled. I remember a sort of transition period when I started realizing the implausibility of the Santa Claus, but wanted to continue believing anyway. A state of denial, if you will. This was followed by the necessity to "believe" for my parents' and brother's sakes. The brother part is easily explicable: I didn't want my brother's fun to end earlier than it had for me. And my parents? Well, I didn't want my parents to know I had stopped believing. I feared them knowing that I knew the "truth." Go figure.
But today, as I helped my little cousin bake cookies and leave out a glass of milk for Santa, we can all be assured that I in no capacity expected a fat man in a horrific outfit to squeeze his way down the chimney at midnight.
While I miss the piss-in-your-pants excitement of sleeping early, listening for reindeer hooves, and tumbling down the stairs the next morning to find presents of unknown origin at my fireplace, the "mature" season of giving introduces a different (more sophisticated), but equally nerve-wrecking excitement. There is nothing like the smile on the face of a friend or family member in response to your gift or gesture. It's even better when they are not expecting it. A sense of satisfaction that is best symbolized by that warm and fuzzy red suit.
Maybe my not having been ruthlessly cut off from Santa Claus was more purposeful than I like to think. Even if the actual man in the suit doesn't exist, that spirit of love, care, and selflessness isn't imaginary -- it lives inside us. So, practice your ho ho ho's and enjoy a very happy and safe holiday season (and maybe some eggnog and a cookie while you're at it!)
I was never involved in a formal conversation regarding the nonexistence of Santa Claus. Not to mention the tooth fairy or leprechaun. My dad never sat me down and said, "Don't waste that milk and cookie." My mom never looked me in the eye and said, "Don't leave that tooth under your pillow." Let me be clear -- the absence of this talk with both of their children was not a mental lapse or my parents' failing some sort of "reality check" lesson in a parenting book. In fact, this may have been one of their most honorable decisions to date (and they've made some pretty good ones). Year after year (of my early childhood) my faith in Santa was only strengthened by the years' bests waiting for me under the tree. Tooth after tooth was celebrated in all its glory. But it was so much more than gifts and money. It was the uninhibited bliss of childhood.
I used to mail letters to Santa Claus. To this day, I still don't know who took those envelopes out of the mailbox. I distinctly remember one Christmas eve, I was in bed with my parents and my mom tapped me and said, "Did you hear that on the roof? It was the patter of reindeer hooves." My stomach felt like it was eating itself and my heart could very well have pounded out of my chest. Perspiration may or may not have been involved. I mean, Santa Claus was on my roof!
My belief in these great jovial beings was not prematurely terminated. I guess it was that whole "it will happen when it happens" sentiment that kept my parents from interfering. There are plenty of metaphorical Scrooges in this world for my parents to have not needed to step in.
I cannot pinpoint a date or even an age at which I stopped believing in Santa Claus and company. No isolated moment or day. It fizzled. I remember a sort of transition period when I started realizing the implausibility of the Santa Claus, but wanted to continue believing anyway. A state of denial, if you will. This was followed by the necessity to "believe" for my parents' and brother's sakes. The brother part is easily explicable: I didn't want my brother's fun to end earlier than it had for me. And my parents? Well, I didn't want my parents to know I had stopped believing. I feared them knowing that I knew the "truth." Go figure.
But today, as I helped my little cousin bake cookies and leave out a glass of milk for Santa, we can all be assured that I in no capacity expected a fat man in a horrific outfit to squeeze his way down the chimney at midnight.
While I miss the piss-in-your-pants excitement of sleeping early, listening for reindeer hooves, and tumbling down the stairs the next morning to find presents of unknown origin at my fireplace, the "mature" season of giving introduces a different (more sophisticated), but equally nerve-wrecking excitement. There is nothing like the smile on the face of a friend or family member in response to your gift or gesture. It's even better when they are not expecting it. A sense of satisfaction that is best symbolized by that warm and fuzzy red suit.
Maybe my not having been ruthlessly cut off from Santa Claus was more purposeful than I like to think. Even if the actual man in the suit doesn't exist, that spirit of love, care, and selflessness isn't imaginary -- it lives inside us. So, practice your ho ho ho's and enjoy a very happy and safe holiday season (and maybe some eggnog and a cookie while you're at it!)
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