by Anease Lacaze

Created on: December 04, 2008

Christmas was very important to me as a child, as it is to most. Thanksgiving marked the beginning of a whirlwind of shopping, gift wrapping, baking and family gatherings- not to mention, presents! For as long as I can remember, I went to see Santa at the mall. We would wait in line, sometimes patiently, while child after child sat atop Santa's lap and begged for cool gifts. I too sat on Santa's lap, but only to smile briefly for my picture- something was fishy. Every child hears stories about their mall Santa. Maybe yours was sent straight from the North Pole by Mrs. Claus to collect orders for toys; mine was just some guy with a scraggily grey beard and greasy skin. I saw no Santa, but I chose not to ask questions. It was as if I knew I would be ruining the mystery of Christmas and Santa far earlier than I should. I bit my tongue, and smiled sweetly year after year for my pictures with Santa.

When I was four, I got some fantastic presents. I should have been preoccupied with my new toys, but rather I noticed that Santa had the same wrapping paper as my parents. My mom quickly gathered the tattered paper and destroyed the evidence. Did they really think that would get past me? Please. I left well enough alone though. As a four year old, I was easily distracted. I did not say another word, and Santa never had the same wrapping paper as us again.

I think I was eight when my gears really began to turn over this elusive Santa I had heard so much about. That year, along with the cookies we left for Santa was a note that insisted he not only sign it himself, but supply me with the signature of a witness. The next morning, I was so excited to see proof before my eyes of Santa's existence. I wanted so badly to believe, but when I awoke I found my note signed "Santa" in my dad's handwriting. On the witness line was [I think] my dog's paw print stamped in what appeared to be chocolate- gross, what exactly did the reindeer stamp his hoof in?

The very next year, while baking Christmas cookies, I noticed something above the cabinets in the kitchen. We had a dropped ceiling, and when you lifted the ceiling tiles, there was immense space for hiding Christmas presents. "There's something up there," I noted while mixing cookie dough from my perched state on the kitchen counter. My mom, now alarmed and scrambling for an explanation simply said, "Get down from there." And that was it- I had all the proof I needed. All of my detective work over the years had culminated into a rather anti-climatic ending. Santa was not some mysterious saint sent from house to house on Christmas Eve. But rather, he was my not-so-clever parents who just completely underestimated my wit and intelligence. I probably should have caught on when they tried to convince me an obese man could fit through our keyhole, as our house was chimney free.

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