Santa Claus

Warning: This story not suitable for children under ten or adults who still believe. Read at your own risk.

At forty, I am still trying to deal with it . The horrific event that occurred when I was only seven. A child. Innocent. Trusting. Until that fateful day that forever changed my life.

It was Christmas, 1973. A wonderful Christmas. It was the year I heard Santa on our balcony. Oh, sure, I’d seen Rudolph’s nose plenty of times in years past. I’d even heard the Christmas elves shuffle into my room to make sure I was asleep before Santa came in. I’d seen the empty cookie plate on Christmas morning. There had been evidence of Santa in my life prior to this fateful holiday season. But that year was different.

I heard him.

I heard the reindeer land on our balcony. I heard him come through the door. I heard the presents being placed under our tree. I even heard him eating the shortbread we left for his snack. Oh, how I wanted to burst out into the hallway and see him. But I knew better.

Christmas morning dawned, and I emerged from my room. The tree looked especially magical that year. My Barbie airplane was spread out in full view - to think, I had heard him setting it up!

I decided to share my wonderful story with my mother. I told her every detail. I trembled with excitement. He was real, and I knew it!

That’s when my world collapsed. That’s when she told me. There was no Santa Claus.

As my mother recounts the story, I cried and cried and cried. I don’t remember. I must have blocked the memory. Post-traumatic stress syndrome, I think it’s called.

My poor mother. She was young. I was her first. How was she to know? There are no chapters in child-rearing books on dealing with the sensitive issue of Santa Claus. On the potentially damaging long-term results of Premature Santa Informant Victims. On how your child will react in adulthood to receiving such horrific news at a young age.

I was one of the lucky ones. I survived with my Santa beliefs intact. Oh, sure, it gets embarrassing sometimes. I had to work hard to triumph over adversity, over the overwhelming Santa-challenged forces that continued to attack me.

At the company lunchtable, when we all discuss how old we were when we “found out about Santa”, I proudly announce that I still believe. Once the laughter subsides and my naive coworkers realize I’m not just trying to be cute, these amateur pshychologists become eager to find out what caused my dimensia

I cry at movies where grown-ups actually get to see tangible evidence that Santa exists (oh, how I wish it were me).

My ex-husband accused me of “ruining” Christmas for him because I got too excited.

Yes, there are challenges for an adult Santa Believer.

But I’m strong enough to face them and stand proud.

At the Christmas parades, I stand with other little believers and cry with excitement when he arrives at the end.

I make no apologies.

I watch the mall Santa Claus with joy in my eyes every year (even though I know he is just a stand in - the real Santa is far too busy to leave the North Pole).

I still leave cookies out for him on Christmas Eve. I usually eat them before I got to bed, though. I know Santa needs to watch his weight.

And I know that, even though he hasn’t been by my house in a few years, he knows I still believe in magic and wonder and kindness and Santa Claus.

That’s all I need.

My mom was wrong. I don’t blame her. She fell for the party line about there being no Santa Claus. Not everyone is strong enough to resist.

But I’ll always believe.