Waiting
For Santa
I
used to wait up for Santa
Claus. As a child I would
race to bed early on Christmas
eve - no lingering in the
bathroom while brushing my
teeth, no crying over bedtime.
My theory was that the sooner
I went to bed, the sooner
I would fall asleep. And of
course, as every child knows,
the sooner you fall asleep
the quicker Christmas morning
will come.
In
practice it never worked like
that. The anticipation of
Santa's visit to our house
and visions of the piles of
presents scattered around
the Christmas tree kept me
awake more effectively than
if I'd had seventy-seven Pixie
sticks right before bed. I
would roll onto my left side
and close my eyes, trying
to relax. I could see the
plate of cookies and milk
that we had left for Santa.
I could imagine him placing
presents under the tree and
then pausing to enjoy a quick
snack. I could see his worn
black leather boots, the thick
red coat, those little glasses
on his nose....
Cliché,
yes, but it's important to
remember that to call something
cliché requires an inherent
cynicism that most children
thankfully lack.
With
my sense of childlike wonder
fully intact I would get so
excited picturing Santa moving
through our house that I would
remain awake, tossing and
turning and trying to fall
asleep. Eventually it would
get late enough that I would
strain my ears listening for
distant sleigh bells. Even
the quiet sounds would seem
loud - was that a cat knocking
a fallen ornament up against
the baseboard in the living
room or the hooves of a team
of reindeer pulling a sleigh
up the middle of Brentwood
Drive?
I
knew Santa would come - it
was pure magic.
As
I got older Christmas became
more complicated. One day
you wake up and recognize
it for the overexploited commercial
shopathon that it is - where
a department store gift certificate
is accepted as a substitute
for real emotional interaction
between human beings. Even
buying gifts for the people
you love becomes a nightmare
of crowded parking lots and
interminable lines at the
register. Then you've got
to find a Christmas tree,
hack it down and drag it for
a mile to the car. Once you
get home, you spend an hour
getting it to stand up straight
only to watch as the cats
pummel it all screwy again
until the needles finally
fall off. There are company
Christmas parties that you
are obligated to dress up
for and attend and office
Secret Santas to worry about.
And that real Santa guy? He
hasn't shown up at my place
in a long time - I sometimes
doubt if he'll ever come back.
I
even went so far as to publicly
state one time that if I ever
had children, I would never
want to get them too excited
about Christmas and Santa
because I wouldn't want to
let them down. The sad truth
is that most Christmas days
I would rather sleep in, wake
up and just chill out.
Now,
of course, I have a daughter
and she's starting to get
excited about Christmas. She
loves to point out the bright
holiday lights on people's
homes as we pass in the car.
She sent her first letter
to Santa. She knows a few
Christmas carols and will
regale anyone with the repetitive
refrain "Jingle Bell, Jingle
Bell, Jingle Bell Rock." Yesterday
she sat on the back of one
teddy bear that she imagined
was her sleigh and had another
teddy bear in front of her
as a reindeer. She believes
that Santa will come.
I'm
conflicted - I'm tempted to
tell her not to get too excited,
tempted to set her expectations
so low that she won't be stunned
by the severe disillusionment
that comes with growing older.
I'm tempted to point out the
clichés to spare her the painful
reality check later.
But
when I look at her and see
that sense of wonder, that
hope and joy entirely free
of cynicism, I remember my
own childhood. When I hear
her talking about Santa Claus
with revered tones I remember
straining to hear him coming
down the street. And I know
that when she wakes up Christmas
morning and sees the tree
with all of the presents scattered
around it that I just might
remember what it was about
Christmas that was so great
to begin with.
So
I'll try to get her to go
to bed early with the hopes
that morning will come quicker.
I'll read her a Christmas
story and tell her that Santa
is on his way. I'll even help
her leave out a plate of cookies
and milk - anything to help
give her that sense of magic.
And if she has trouble sleeping,
like I used to have trouble
sleeping, I will sit up and
wait with her, waiting for
Santa.
This
year I know he'll come.
This
column © 2000 Lee Totten
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