Oh, Oh It’s Magic!

There are a few things that are, and have always been, sacred in my family.

Namely, Garth Brooks and Santa Claus.

We’ll save good ol’ Garth for another post…because he is totally worth a post all on his own. Maybe even a series of posts. Stay tuned.

But today? Today it’s all Santa.

For this week’s writer’s workshop, MamaKat suggested we write about a lost part of childhood, like realizing that the big man in red isn’t quite so real as everyone would have led you to believe. Being as how my experiences with Santa Claus evoke pretty strong emotions, I thought this would be a story worth sharing.

<And remember – bashing Santa Claus is pretty much sacrilege in my book, so make sure any comments you make after reading are not naughty…stick with the nice!>

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I’m not sure what my earliest memory of Santa Claus is, but I always, always remember Christmas as a happy time. Dare I say, as the most wonderful time of the year. During my elementary years, we would load up and spend the holidays at my grandparents house. I do remember being concerned about how Santa would find us, but Mom always assured me the he knew where I would be. And oh yes, I wrote himlong letters full of my Christmas wishes, and always left a thank you note with my milk and cookies on Christmas Eve.

Then, around 2nd grade I guess, I asked my parents if Santa was really real. I don’t remember what prompted me, probably some schmuck kid on the playground spreading nasty Santa rumors, but I hated the idea that he might not exist. My parents, full of wisdom, simply asked…

“Well Heather, do you want him to be real?”

Yes! Yes I wanted him to be real…I loved the magic that was Santa. “Then he is real,” they said.

And that’s when the real Christmas magic started.

That Christmas, we went to my grandparents, same as usual. Christmas eve we settled in, full of the excitement and jitters that only little children can have. My parents and little bro were in one room, my Papa in his own room, and I slept with my Pappy (aka – grandma) in her room. In the wee hours of the morning, my parents snuck into the room and woke me up…

“Sshhh Heather, you have to be very quiet! We heard sleigh bells and woke up…and saw Santa in the living room! We’ll let you see him too, but you must be very quiet!”

And that’s how I came to see Santa Claus, standing right there in my grandparent’s living room. His back was to me as he went about his work, and then in a snap he was out the front door…and I could hear the jiggle bells on his sleigh as he left our house.

What magic! What fun! I knew it couldn’t have been my Papa dressed up…he was still snoring like a freight train in the room next door. It must have really been Santa! If any doubt remained, it was all dashed when I saw that Santa had fixed a snow globe of ours that had been broken. It had a little carousel horse on the inside, which had broken off and was just laying in the globe…until Santa magically fixed it.

Let me just say, that made a total believer out of me.

So much so that, as a sixth grader, in JUNIOR HIGH, mind you…I would literally sit at my lunch table and argue with my friends about Santa Claus. I was practically willing to fight to the death, totally confident in the “realness” of Santa.

I can still remember the day, after one particularly brutal lunch argument, when I decided that it might not be a bad idea to just….double-check. So I sat my parents down again, and asked the same question from years before. Only this time, I added that if he wasn’t real, I’d really like to know, because I was arguing with people about it at school.

This time, my parents told me that it was the spirit of Santa that is real, the spirit of giving. But no, they said, there is not actually a man named Santa Claus.

I don’t remember being devastated that day…I probably felt something more like relief that I had learned before I made a total fool out of myself. But Christmas morning that year was another story. We were in our own house that year, and my parents actually had to come and wake me up. Instead of running out instantly, as I had done every year prior (and have practically done every year since) I told them I wanted to get dressed first. I brushed my hair. I changed clothes. I sat in front of the mirror. I stalled, until they practically demanded that I come out so that my little brother could come out of his room as well. In the end, even that Christmas was a happy one…though a little bittersweet.

My brother stopped believing shortly after me, thanks to an insensitive buffoon of a coach. Even so, our Christmas traditions still include leaving out treats for Santa (which became a lot weirder after we learned it was Dad who was going to be eating it…for some reason cheese became a favorite thing to leave) and writing him notes to find on Christmas Eve. (Also, learning toward the weird side.)

<I found some of our old Santa notes in my parent’s room once…just goes to show how special that time was for all of us.>

We still get a “Santa present,” and like when we were little, it’s unwrapped and sitting in front of the tree on Christmas morning.

The magic is still real for me, as I hope it will be for my children one day.

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I don’t know that I’ve never said this, but thank you Mom & Dad. Thank you for the magic, for giving me something so special to experience and hold onto and remember. Thank you for letting me hold onto that piece of my childhood for a little longer than most, for always making Christmas such a wonderful time for our family.

And, to whomever it was dressed up in the Santa costume that night, thank YOU. A little girl’s Christmas dream came true that night…

So Santa, I got your back. *wink*

KEEP CALM & BELIEVE!