Why I Believe in Santa Claus

Deanna / Life with Kids /

My anecdotal evidence gathered from 38 years of blind faith.

1976 — Age 6

If I keep pinching myself, I’ll stay awake. I can still hear mom and dad in the living room, so I can’t sneak out yet. 

Jennifer says there isn’t any Santa. That it’s really mom and dad. But Jennifer unties Billy’s shoes just to be mean. He can’t tie them himself, and he cries.

It’s starting to rain outside. We never get snow at Christmas.

Shhh, I think they’ve gone to bed. Now I have to wait again.  Must keep pinching.

– – – – –

Oh no! I fell asleep! The rain is coming very hard now. I hear a tinkle in the house. I knew it! Jennifer is wrong. I hop out of bed and sneak into the hallway. Just a little farther and I’ll be able to see. I tiptoe to the end and peek around the corner —

CRASH! Lightning fills the house and the thunder is so loud I almost scream. I clap my hands over my mouth and run back to bed. Santa knew I was going to look!

I’ll never doubt again.

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1983 — Age 13

It really doesn’t matter if I’m only getting clothes for Christmas. I quit playing with toys a long time ago.

What irks me about this Christmas, other than the three horrid hours we have to spend watching the old people play dominos, is that something is wrong with my ankle. No one can figure out anything wrong with it, but I can’t walk. It hurts a lot and I have to hop everywhere. I’ve spent the whole break reading books, and crawling to the bathroom when I have to go. Mom acts like I’m making it up. I know going to the doctor is expensive, and I don’t remember hurting it. But someone’s got to do something.

Tomorrow morning is Christmas Day and I’m in the play at church, and this is going to be so embarrassing. Whoever saw an angel bouncing to the mike to sing “Angels We Have Heard on High?” I finally get a big part — they never choose me for Mary — and this has to happen. Maybe Tiny Tim will loan me his crutches.

– – – – – –

My brother is banging on my door, going on about some Star Wars something-or-another in his stocking. I’m halfway across the room before I realize it.

I can walk just fine.

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1997 — Age 27

I can’t believe I’ve been trying to get pregnant for almost a year. Thankfully my doctor was willing to see us so close to Christmas, get the preliminary tests started, so we can start the New Year with a new direction, most certainly with some assistive technology. No good ol’ fashioned way for us.

I hang the stockings almost bitterly; I was certain we could put a third one up, even if a baby hadn’t quite yet come by now. When we began this journey in February, I just knew we’d be well on our way by Christmas. I was so sure that after last Christmas, I’d bought a new stocking on clearance, just to be prepared. I run my hands along the fabric, then stick it beneath the tissue paper, feeling foolish.

I pull out the chart the doctor gave us. We have to “try” the next few nights in a row, then we can take a test on Jan. 7, the first day it might be positive. A Christmas baby, I laugh. We can tell him he was conceived on Christmas Eve.

Whatever. I’m certain what actually brings the baby around will be intensive, long, probably painful, and expensive.

And yet… a few days later.

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2003 — Age 33

I’m trying not to have a cow. It’s 8:00 on Christmas Eve and Baby Elizabeth just opened an early gift — a little blue bear. Emily has been crying nonstop, wanting one too. We’ve called my parents, who we won’t see for a few more days, to see if they can find one and give it to her in Wichita Falls when we drive up, but now she’s writing a letter to Santa asking for a blue bear.

She tugs on the front door.

“Where are you going?” I ask her. “It’s night time.”

“To put my letter in the mail!”

Oh no. “To Santa?”

“Yes! To bring me a blue bear!”

I don’t even know what to say. I follow her down the steps.

“Baby, I don’t know if Santa will get the letter this late. He’s probably already packed his sleigh.”

“He can! I know he can!”

We go back in the house and I get them ready for bed. What will Emily think if Santa doesn’t get her the bear? I could send John out. Surely something is still open on Christmas Eve with a blue bear in stock. If not, maybe she’ll forget when she gets all the other gifts.

I go back downstairs, where John is pulling the bag of extra toys to set out. “Why did Emily go outside?” he asks.

I tell him about the bear.

“That’s funny,” he said. “A couple of days ago I was picking up some little things for them, and I got this.” He tugs a small blue beanie baby from the bag. A bear.

I can’t believe it.

We may not know exactly how he works, or when or where or why, but there definitely is a Santa Claus.

I will never doubt again.

A Picture of My Morning

Deanna / Life with Kids /

8:30 a.m. I wake to a breath against my cheek. I open my eyes to filtered sunlight on a round face, still faintly babyish, soft and a bit silly. Elizabeth.

She speaks. “Mama, you’re up!”

She rolls on top of me, putting her small hands on either side of my jaw. “I’m hungry!”

Her smile reveals the gap in her mouth. Her first tooth fell out yesterday. A pink tongue finds the hole. She isn’t used to the sensation, an empty space, the spongy gum.

She wriggles impatiently. “Get up!”

“You’re on me!” I say.

She slides off easily in her slippery nightgown. “Can we have cake?” Last night we baked a lemon one, creamy yellow with frosting like sunshine.

“Does that sound like a healthy start to your day?”

“Mama! That’s a commercial!”

She gets yogurt instead, with a promise of cake later. Her sister stirs in her room. Soon the television punctures the quiet, a cacophony of cartoon shouts and sound effects clattering through the room.

Emily arrives, crying. “What happened?” I ask.

“I scraped my arm on the bed.”

I examine the wound, a long pink mark with a bit of skin peeling back. “It will only hurt a minute,” I assure her, pulling her into a hug. She’s nine now, and I only get to hold her this close when she’s hurt or sick.

Within minutes, she’s eating cheerios. Elizabeth has already tired of cartoons and sits on the floor to her room, reassembling her Betty Spaghetti doll. She starts humming, then when she gets to the part of the song she knows, bursts out with, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow!” She’s mad about Annie right now. We’ve had to limit how many times we will play the song in the car.

The day off is a relief to them after two weeks of school, early mornings, strains to make the bus, homework and due dates and pressure. We all stretch out in our free morning, lounging in pajamas, not doing our hair, wandering about the house to look for something to do.

I know these days are fleeting. Already they shift into the young women they will become. They cry less, fight more, and don’t tell me everything.

But today is our day, they are still little, and I capture this passing ordinary moment of their childhood, a picture of our life together while they are still at home, I am still their daily influence, and they are mine.

Now it’s time to eat cake.

Memories of the ol’ Four-Eyes

Deanna / Life with Kids /

I didn’t really want to take Emily to the optometrist.

Maybe I was in denial, but she seemed fine to me. Her dad insisted she wasn’t seeing well, though, and so I took her last week.

She wasn’t happy about it, and neither was I.

She breezed through the glaucoma air-puffs much better than I do — it always takes ten tries and then they just give up. She seemed uncertain on the blind spot tests, but managed well for a nine-year-old who was obediently doing what she was told, even if she didn’t want to.

The exam itself was harder, as she hesitated on every choice between 1 and 2, better or worse. I sat quietly, not speaking for her or urging her to decide. This was her moment.

I was also nine years old when I got my glasses. My dad had come to school one day and noticed me walking up to the board to copy problems. I remember picking up my first pair from TSO and being astonished — birds sit on telephone wires! Signs have more than just the big pictures — they say stuff!

My happy view of the world crashed quickly. On the bus the next morning, I no more stepped into the aisle when someone shouted, “Four eyes!”

Being a shy and emotional girl, I immediately sat down and started crying. The day would get worse, boys stealing the glasses from me, the sweaty slide of plastic frames down my nose at recess, the pinch behind my ears. None of this seemed worth not having to walk to the board anymore. I vowed to lose or break the crummy things.

But we were poor, and glasses were expensive, and I feared the wrath of my parents if nothing else. So I learned, for the next five years until I got contacts, to hunker down and endure. I hated the way I looked. I clearly recall the day in seventh grade when I read a book that said, “No one should wear long hair and glasses!” I grabbed handfuls of my waist-length hair and yanked hard, as if I could tear it out. No wonder boys didn’t like me! I felt endless jealousy of glasses-free girls. So I read and studied and kept to myself.

Sitting in an optometrist’s office as the doctor rattled off the news was harrowing for me. Emily got her pale blue frames and we immediately bought her a super cute glasses case to store them — turns out she only needs them for distances and will actually see better without them up close and on the computer.

I tried to breathe easier. Even though I know more children wear glasses now, and teasing is something we all have to learn to manage, I still want to protect her as long as I can. All of us parents want our children’s lives to be better than our own, and this was one thing I couldn’t stop from happening — her genes being half mine. But you can bet I’ll be watching her closely for any signs of upset two weeks from now when school starts. And I won’t ignore any withdrawal she might go through. We remind her how cute she looks, how smart and fun — and it’s true. But I worry about her, and I can’t help it.

Locks of Love

Deanna / Life with Kids /

About this time three years ago, a three-year-old Elizabeth pushed a chair over to the craft counter, tugged her sister’s safety scissors out of the box, and lopped off the ponytail on top of her head, sheering off a serious section of hair to the scalp.

We called her “Spike.”

Since then, she’s mostly grown her hair out, and boy did it grow. This morning when we took her picture, she could almost sit on her blonde “princess hair.”

But today she decided to cut it all off — letting the hairdresser do it this time — and give it to Locks of Love, who provide natural hair wigs to children with illnesses.

She was very upbeat as she sat in the chair and showed Suzie from Kid Clips how much to cut, angling her tiny hand near her chin. I was worried she would cry as the hair came off, but she was laughing the whole time, amazed at the instant change in how she looked.

The girls have two friends at their elementary school who use Locks of Love hairpieces. I’m amazed that when I mention the organization, everyone seems to know about it. It’s a great way for children to understand the challenges their peers face, and instead of feeling strange about seeing other kids without hair, this gives them a way to relate.