All I Want for Christmas: One More

I do not know Christmas as a father when Santa was not larger than life itself; when the house did not resound with his hallowed name a month before his fateful arrival. When every conversation in December did not begin with “I hope Santa…” or every frustrating parent moment ended with, “You know Santa is watching.” There is magic in this season of belief that I have come to take for granted because I could not fathom my oldest daughter would stop believing, thus changing the greatest streak of Christmas joy I have ever known.

I fear every Christmas movie and every fake Santa Claus hanging outside of the grocery store. I look into my eight-year daughter’s blue eyes to see if the magical light has dimmed. I watch her reaction when my son, who is five, declares his devotion as he pays homage to Santa in reverent silence and respectful timidity. I watch her for signs of cynicism as she evaluates every image of Santa and calculates it with her collective memory. When she goes out to play with her cousins or friends, I fear she will return with the knowledge that will end her Christmas childhood. My adamant replies to her younger brother’s discrepancies concerning the logic of Santa are for her sake; to keep her candle lit even as the wind of “wanting to grow up” blows harder.

“He uses the front door when houses don’t have a chimneys.”

“He doesn’t eat all the cookies at every house. Just a bite from each one to be polite.”

“Of course reindeer fly, because they are not just like any deer. Elves can fly and they have the same diet in the North Pole.”

“Santa and God make sure the sun doesn’t rise until everyone has their presents.”

“He has magical bags that shrink the toys so they fit in his sleigh.”

I have two weeks left, and she has shown me no signs of wavering. She is quiet though when his name comes up or tries to defend Santa against her brother’s natural inquisitiveness. She does not draw pictures of him or elves or the North Pole. Our refrigerator would be covered by now with her festive artwork. She refused to sit on his lap when we went to the mall, politely standing as she eloquently dictated her memorized list of demands. We have not watched Frosty at all.

She has her doubts but she is not sure enough to risk losing presents because her closest people believe so strongly. More than anything, I feel she wants to believe because it feels wrong not to and she knows it would break her parents’ heart. She fears like me: that Christmas might never be the same if she unbelieves.

I grew up believing that Santa brought every gift. His largesse was overwhelming and I believed until her age because I thought we were too poor, the neighborhood was too poor, for us to get as much as we did. I never spoke up when my friends walked to school and talked about how they found their presents. I stayed quiet and believed harder. But that Christmas week, a few days after the holiday, my mom drew me close to her and smiled kindly:

“It is all right now that you don’t believe. But you have a sister who does and do not spoil it for her.”

It was a warning, an acceptance, and a loss. She saw the tears in my eyes and she held me as I turned away.

“It doesn’t change Christmas. You will see. It will be as wonderful as it always is.”

A year later it was. It was as bright and generous and big as the first eight. I remember looking at my mom and dad as we tore through the pile of presents and they stood on the steps to see everyone’s joy. That night we were resting from a day of visiting and presents, and I met my Mom’s tired eyes. I don’t know if I said these words to her but in my memory I did and she hugged me and walked up the steps to her bedroom.

“It was just as wonderful.”

When you give up Santa, you meet your parents on a level of kindness and generosity never imagined in a child’s easy heart. I am not ready to give up Santa as a father. I am not him yet. If she could believe just for one more Christmas, maybe next year I will be ready.