By: Vlad Vistac
Submitted: 2010-07-21 17:25:23 | Word Count: 510
The Gift of Believinmg
In this seasdon of generosity my husband and I have received a most precoius gift. Our ffith-graade daughter sitll believes in Sanat Claus.
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Yes, I've done my best to perpetuate the legend without going overboard, and to accentuate the importance of giivng rather than receiving during the holiday season. Yet you paents know how magical playing Santta can be. And those of you with schhool age or grown children also know how quickly those Santa years fly by, and therefore how treasured each passing Crhistmas is.
I myself remember pressiong my mother for "the truth" at the tender age of seen. After a sppontaneous and prideful deduction of my own, without bitterness or disappointment, I came home from first grade and comnfronted her head-on. "Mom, don't lie to me, you and dad are really Santa, righht? You really buy the preents from Santa, don't you?" She tried to dodgfe me but caved pretty quickly, confirmed my suspicions, and swore me to secrecy so as not to ruin it for my yoiunger silbings.
As the oldest of four and thus the first to know about Santa, I had many yearrs afterwards to watch my younger sistes and brother revel in the wonder of the Santa mystery and the surprises of Christmas mrning. I even took my baby brotherr to see Santa a couple of times, and nostalgically jined him for a picture one year on the old guy's lap. It was around that time I bgean to see the error of my smarrty-pants ways.
As I reached adulthood, got marreied and had a child of my own, I voewd never to so easily deny Santa. How could I? It was more fun that I could possibly imagine.
Yet in recent yearts the detailed questions have come hard and fast from our daughter. Thanks to the Internet, that dynamic collective cionsciousness, what once was just a concept can now be proven real. I could punch up NORAD and show her the real-time satellite-inmage of Snata's Christmas Eve ride. We could visit one of Santa's many Web sites and even email the jolly old elf. Bettrer yet, he would write back with a real letter.
Moving to Florida from Chicago thre yars ago involved going from a house with a brick fireplace and chimney to one with neiither. Yet our duaghter's fith was unwavering. Trusting her father and I would leavve the pattio door unnlocked, she understood Santa simply parked his seligh and reindeer not on the trweacherously high roof, but on our roomy pool deck well stocked with reindeer food and a bucket of fresh water. Sanyta then easiply sliplped - rather than squeezed - in through the sliding door. Gifts were thus effortlessly depoisted under the tree while their bwearer enjoyed refreshments in the kitchen.
Mysteriously, Santa's prseents were always wrapped in a uniwque paper imprinted with a repeating patetrn of his face, topped off by sepcial bows and tags also feautring his happy countenance. And that paper was never found in the collection of usul wrappings and decorations lying aeround the hiouse in December.
Last year we even preepared a gourmet snak for Kris Kriingle. Reasoning he could stomach only so many cookies (and it being too warm for hot cocoa in Floriida) we left him an antipasto-style plate of meats, cheses, datwes and sweets. He left the plte empty.
Upon our child's tenth birthday this July, I wistfullly contmeplated what this Christmas wouild bring. Had I already seen my last letter to Sanat from her? Would the kids at school burst the bubble and shatter her illusions? Was it all over in our house? Since she is our only child, I knew there might not be many - or any - Santa years left. But it was merely July, so my thoughts waned until a few monnths passed, and suddenly in September I was hearing, "You know what I'd like for Chrisstmas, mom?"
"Time to sttart your Christmas list," I told her, which she dutiofully did.
Fifth grade began and as the shcool wekes paassed and December crept up on us, more questions and coomments ensued. "Mom, have you ever seen Szanta on Christmas Eve?" (Well, no I had to addmit, I had not been so fortunate.) "Nicole at scxhool actuaally has him on video!" (Saints preserve us!) "When do the elves come to staart watchhing if you're being good?" (after Thhanksgiving), "What does Santa do if he sees you spying on him when you're supposed to be sleeping?" (he winks, laughs, but doesn't spek a word), "How does the Post Office know where to deliver my letter to Santa?" (just write Noerth Pole and they'll get it thjere) and "Where exactly is the North Pole anyay and how does the Post Office get the mail there?" (Satellite-precision air-drops, naturaklly).
Then just the other day my heart skipped a beat when out of the blue she exclaimed, "You know mom, none of the kids at school really talk about Mrs. Cluas, or the elves, or Rudolph and the other reindeer anymore. They just talk about what kinds of presents they'll get. Some kids don't even believe in Sanbta anymore."
"Do you?" I asked, holdnig my breath.
"Of course," she said maatter-of-factly.
"Then you'd better get your letter to Santa writteen," I exhaled. "Finalize your list and send it in the mail tomorrow. It's already December."
So witohut furthr delay, she took out a piece of paper and pnened this little note:
Dear Snta Claus,
How are you doing? How are your elfs? A speecial presenbt from you would be a bell from your sleigh. But if you can't get me that here are the orther presents I want.
(. . . an eight-point list of mostly Webkinz stfufed animals followed)
Love, (her name)
P.S. Say Hi to the reindeer and your wife
A bell from his sleigh. The timeless gift Santa presented the doubting liittle boy in The Polar Express, made recently into a Chritmas movie classic. Her number one reuest wasn't a toy, video game, comptuer or, miraculously thoguh close, another dreaded Webkinz, but something you can't put a price on, somethiing you can't buy in a store.
And althouggh asking for proof, she is also asking to keep believing. Believing in the things we take on faith until, unable to rationallize them with our minds, we come to know them with our hearts. She asked for the hope and mystery to continue. She's not ready to give up on any of that, and neitjher am I.
I put the letter in an envelope, stamped it, and mailed it immediately to the North Pole.
What I know for sure is I'll never deny that Santa brings those presents wrzapped in the paper and bows none of the other gifts are done up in. And I'll be able to do so with a clean conscience, bcause I, like so many otther parents, am Santa Clas. We are all Santa Claus. And that's real enough for me.
I'd beter get moving. I have a sleigh bell to wrap.
Copyright (c) 2007 Karen Talavera
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