It was just about three (or four?) years ago, and my husband and I were settled in for our annual Christmas visit with his family. As we sat around, sprawled out on sofas, chatting comfortably about a variety of topics, sipping toddies and throwing good-natured jabs, the conversation turned to the moment we all first realized that there wasn't really a Santa Claus. Stories of disappointment and devastation. My sister-in-law lamented that she'd spent at least two years pretending to believe in Santa after she'd realized the truth in order not to hurt her mother's feelings. As for myself? "I never believed in Santa," I said. Shocked utterances and stares of disbelief were immediately thrown my way, as I explained that my parents had tried very hard to keep Christmas a holy day, as opposed to a secular holiday. We still had presents and cookies and went to Santa's Village to pet the reindeer. We still watched Frosty the Snowman and How the Grinch Stole Christmas every year, but the emphasis of Christmas at our house was on angles, God, and stories of stars leading the wise men to the Nativity. I knew that Santa Claus wasn't any more real than the people dressed as Micky and Goofy at Disney World. But you should have heard the uproar when I announced that I had no intentions of deluding my own future children with such nonsense either.
"You can't do that! You'd be robbing your kids of their childhood! You'd be taking the magic of Christmas away from them!" There arose such a clatter that I nearly dropped my Christmas beverage. I looked at my husband for support, but he was staring at me like I was a total stranger. Apparently this was a topic that should have been discussed prior to our vows.
The debate fired on for quite some time, as I was accused of being heartless and un-American. My nephew said he'd never been much for Santa until he saw the joy and wonder on the face of his younger brother, and that however short-lived, he couldn't fathom taking that joy away from him. My sister-in-law was on my side, stating that she didn't want her kids to suffer the same inevitable disappointment that she did. I recalled a story from my own childhood in which I'd told some kids at school that Santa wasn't real, and how silly and naive I'd thought they were. ("You think some guy comes down the chimney with your presents? Your parents buy them, dummy.") This particular story didn't do much to bolster my image, but I maintained that I'd rather my kid be me in that scenario than the one who went home in tears.
All that said, NOT believing in Santa has not left me damaged, unpatriotic, or "scrooged" in any way. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find a bigger Christmas sap than me. I love to decorate, I love looking at lights, I love having a real tree (the bigger the better), I love the sound of the Salvation Army bells ringing, I even love the mall at Christmastime. The decorations, the people rushing around buying gifts for loved ones, and the smell of the Karmelkorn as you come in the west doors. Smells! Talk about smells. Cookies baking, cider simmering, turkey in the oven, my fresh-cut tree warming in the house. Those things don't smell the same at any other time of year. The same family that accused me of being heartless and anti-Santa had never even seen A Christmas Story until I came into their lives. (Talk about un-American! How does that even happen?) I will keep the Christmas music station on in my car from Thanksgiving until Christmas day, and no, I never get sick of it. I will watch fluffy heartwarming Hallmark Christmas movies one after the next, and I there has never once, ever, in all my 33 years, been an occasion on which I have not teared up at the end of It's A Wonderful Life. Ever.
The irony is that even though I never believed in Santa Claus, I do believe in Christmas magic. (And really, what's the difference?) It's the feeling you get when you plug in the very first strand of lights, or when you see a child come in from playing in the snow, red-faced and sweaty, ready for hot chocolate. It's seeing someone quickly shove a twenty into the red kettle instead of change, or pass up a good parking spot because they know that another car has been cruising the lot for 10 minutes already. What's more magical than that? (Especially in North Dakota.) On Christmas day, a child was born that would change the world. He brought hope and possibility into the world in a way that only a child can. And that's magic. I believe in God, even though I can't see Him or prove He's real. Faith is believing in something, even when common sense tells you not to. It's every bit as hard to prove there is a Santa as it is to prove there is a God, and if you believe in one, then why not the other? If I'm ever faced with the wide eyes of a child, asking me if Santa Claus is real, I guess I'll just have to be honest. No one really knows, so....maybe he is. ;)
Merry Christmas!
