Remember

Psalm 98:3King James Version (KJV)

³ He hath remembered his mercy and his truth toward the house of Israel: all the ends of the earth have seen the salvation of our God.

The Plain Ugly Truth About Santa Claus

By Kathy Deters

Parental Advisory: Not recommended for those who will be waiting up for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.

As Sophia Petrillo would say, “Picture it: Easter Sunday, 1983. A young girl in a fluffy lavender dress, white gloves and matching white straw hat squirms uncomfortably in a metal folding chair in Sunday School, hoping to get home in time to catch the Easter Bunny hopping around her living room hiding eggs . When she whispers about it to her slightly older classmate, let’s call her Schmidgette to protect her privacy, Schmidgette responds, ‘What are you, a baby? There’s no Easter Bunny…your parents leave you all that stuff.’ That crushed young girl was me. And friends, my life was forever changed that day.”

I broke the news to my parents as soon as they arrived to pick me up from Sunday School. They were not as shocked by this revelation as I had expected. Angry with Schmidgette, yes, but shocked? No. It was a long, quiet car ride home. I quickly retreated to my room. My parents gave me a few minutes to ponder this life-altering news before knocking gently on my door. My mother came in, sat down next to me on my bed, and dried my tears. Though I don’t remember much of the actual conversation, I do remember her confessing that yes, she and my father were responsible for the Easter eggs. And the tooth fairy money under the pillow. AND the gifts from Santa. That was surely the lowest blow of all.

But how was that possible? The sleigh bells that I heard every Christmas Eve, just as I got into the bathtub? The beautiful doll that had mysteriously arrived on my doorstep the previous Christmas, when my parents were both sitting in the living room with me? What about the beautiful, handmade dollhouse that was under the tree? And the wooden sled with my picture and the words, “Kathy’s Comet” painted across it? If these goodies weren’t made by Santa’s elves, then where could they possibly have come from?

I was certain my parents were trying to steal Santa’s thunder. My mother smiled and gave me one of those easy, “You’ll understand when you have kids of your own” responses, and that was the end of the conversation. Thirty years and three kids later and to be honest, I still didn’t get it; in fact, I think I understood less than I did at 7. I remained certain that somewhere out there Santa Claus really did exist, stepping in with a bit of magic when parents couldn’t quite finish that list. It was the only possible explanation.

But finally, one fateful afternoon three days before Christmas, I was forced to face the hard truth about Santa Claus. I had volunteered to be the room parent coordinator for my daughter’s school. Winter party day had arrived, and I was beyond nervous. I fretted that one of the classes would be without a party. I fretted that my own children’s Christmas at home wouldn’t be as much as they expected. I fretted that nothing would quite live up to the picture-perfect Christmases I remembered from my own childhood. I fretted that I wasn’t woman enough to be anyone’s Santa Claus.

I got up early that morning to prepare for the parties and to tackle a few of my own last-minute holiday preparations — gift wrapping, cookie baking, and all that other stuff that’s never as much fun as it appears to be in television commercials. When I walked to my front door to turn off the Christmas lights, I looked out the window and discovered my mailbox lying in a crumpled, twisted pile of pieces on my front lawn. Such a minor thing — probably vandalism, a random act of unkindness—but it broke my heart. I had so many other people to take care of, and for just a moment of self-pity, I lamented that being a grownup meant that I had no one to take care of me.

My parents had volunteered to take off work that day to babysit my younger son while I was at school. They reported for babysitting duty; my father wore his trademark Santa hat, as he does throughout the holiday season. As they walked up the driveway, he pointed to the mailbox. “Oh, goodness, what happened here?” I shrugged and, to be honest, I was a bit embarrassed; it was an eyesore, and I had neither the money nor the skills to do anything about it. I discretely brushed another tear from my cheek, gave them last-minute babysitting instructions and then headed to school.

Party time came and everything went spectacularly; children played games, ate pizza and made gifts for grandmothers and uncles. Somehow, at the last minute, everything had fallen into place. Room parents are the unsung heroes of any elementary school. I took a deep breath for what felt like the first time in weeks, and then headed home, hoping I could get back in time to catch the mailman. As I pulled into my driveway, there it was, my mailbox, not repaired, but replaced. A brand spanking new, shiny black one, perfect in every way. My dad stood next to it, in his Santa hat, tightening the final screw. He grinned. “Sorry I didn’t have time to get a bow.”

It was not a Barbie dream house, a fancy flyer sled, a CD player, overpriced perfume, an autographed picture of Dean Cain or any of the other ridiculous things I asked Santa for during my youth; it was something better. It was my reminder that my parents were magic. That every parent is magic. That I might be magic, too.

As I stood there, looking at my father and that mailbox, I remembered that my mother had once told me Kathy’s Comet was, in fact, a last-minute act of desperation — they had thought my grandparents were getting me a sled, but at the last minute discovered they had chosen a different gift instead. By the time my parents found out, the stores were closed, so my dad spent Christmas Eve in the garage, building me a sled from scratch; my mother painted it with the words “Kathy’s Comet” just before putting it under the tree. And as for that beautiful, handmade dollhouse? It was a cardboard box, decorated with lovely pink wallpaper remnants that my mother procured from a local paint supply store. It was trimmed with gold cord; a tiny framed postcard of an ice castle in Quebec hung on one wall.

My mother tells me often that she regrets they couldn’t give us more when we were young, but to me, those Christmases were nothing short of magic. So now, as my children begin to write their ridiculous lists to Santa Claus (Santa, if you’re reading this, please drop an ogre by my house), I know that whatever they find under the tree on Christmas morning might not be perfect in my eyes, but it will be perfect in theirs. And if you happen to stop by my home for the holidays, you’re sure to see Kathy’s Comet sitting on the front step. And a shiny black mailbox at the end of the driveway.