My sister thinks I was 8 or 9 years old when I decided to find out whether there really is a Santa Claus. I can’t remember how old I was exactly, but I was aware that most of my peers didn’t believe anymore. In fact, one of them in particular–Dave, who lived next door–told me point-blank that year that there’s no such thing. He sounded sincere, and maybe a little bemused when I argued against him. But I still thought he was lying. He wasn’t my friend. Just one of the boys on the street who teased me when I was outside playing. So I held on to my belief by deciding that he was just making fun of me, as usual.
But if my sister’s right about how old I was, I was a little past the age when kids stopped believing, and the chorus against Santa was growing louder. But–precocious little girl that I was–I wasn’t going to let go of the magic without hard evidence. So I came up with a plan to write two different letters to Santa–each with a different list of items that I wanted from him. I would give one version directly to Santa when I went to talk to him at the local firehouse, and I would give the other version to my parents. Nothing unusual or suspicious about this procedure, as I gave my Christmas list to each of them every year.
I worked hard on my letters that year, writing and rewriting them a couple of times and making sure there were no misspellings. I didn’t want anything to foil my plot. (And I was obviously already headed for a career as an editor.) I made sure the lists were completely different, so there would be no doubt about who put my gifts under our Christmas tree. But I also made sure there were items on each list that I actually wanted, so I couldn’t lose no matter which way things went. The letters went to their intended recipients a few weeks before Christmas, and I never let on to anyone what I was doing. Then I waited quietly and patiently to find out what my careful research would reveal.
Of course, you know how it ended. The items on the list I’d given to my parents were under the tree Christmas morning. My only mistake was that, because I was trying to give Santa every chance to prove himself, I had included the thing I wanted the most–a Hot Wheels set–on his list. So I was kind of disappointed that it wasn’t there. But I was happy about the Spirograph my parents gave me because I really wanted that too.
As I opened gift after gift, my heart sank a little bit more. I was hoping to see at least one thing from Santa. But no dice. After the last present was opened, I finally announced to my parents what I’d done. They were gobsmacked, and impressed that I’d managed to put one over on them. But I think they were also sad that it was the last Christmas when anyone in the house still believed in Santa Claus. All my siblings are at least 10 years older than I, so the magic had gone away for them more than a decade before. But no one ruined it for me, even when I started expressing doubts, and I appreciate that.
I was sad, too, that Christmas. But also satisfied that my hard work brought me the answer I was seeking, if not the answer I was hoping for. While the holiday was never the same for me after that, it’s still the most magical time of the year, in my opinion, because it’s now the only time my whole family gets together. And someone tells the story about the Christmas I stopped believing in Santa Claus every time.