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I will never forget the time I saw Santa Claus. I’m not talking about at the mall or in a parade. I saw him in my own house with my own eyes when I was about five years old.
I remember hearing a man’s voice and some movements downstairs and waking up, groggy. Santa is here! I crept out of my bedroom and sat at the top of the steps, peeking down into our living room. I still remember covering my mouth with my hands because I couldn’t help the gasp that escaped my lips when I saw that he was really real. I remember being frozen in place and watching wide-eyed as a man in red pants mumbled to himself, pacing back and forth to our tree and then out of sight again.
From my vantage point, I could not see above his waist, and honestly I didn’t want to. I couldn’t risk having him see me and knowing I was out of bed. Surely, I was breaking all the rules by watching, and if he saw me seeing him it would cause some sort of glitch in the Santa Matrix. If he stooped to drop a present, I would duck behind the wall. I was very, very careful to avoid being seen, which meant I never saw his face. I only saw bright red pants and white socks. Santa takes off his boots in other people’s houses. That’s very considerate and Santa-y, don’t you think?
I snuck back into bed, the illicit and magical memory ingrained in me forever.
In the morning felt so guilty that I told my parents I had seen the man putting the gifts under the tree. They exchanged a somber look that I didn’t understand. Maybe I really did break the Matrix? But, no, the presents were still here, so that couldn’t be true.
“Let’s not tell your sister. We want Christmas to still be magic for her.”
“Why can’t I tell Charlotte? I SAW SANTA! I saw his red pants. He was right here in our living room!”
“Oh! You saw his red pants? And that is how you know he was Santa?”
“Yes!” Geez, grown ups could be dumb.
As the years went by, the faith of my friends and siblings started to fade, but I kept on believing. Well into my double digit years, I was still insisting, “I saw him! I really did. Honestly.” Any doubting children could be sent straight to me, my convictions were honest and believable because they were true. I really did see what I saw. So what if I was eleven or twelve or thirteen? I had seen and I believed.
It wasn’t until a few years down the road when a tiny inkling of a different possibility crossed my mind.
I came upon a family photo album and mixed in among pictures from that very same Christmas were candid shots from my childhood. My sister and me eating Oatmeal Creme Pies and playing with Barbie dolls
And then there was my father, rocking a pair of red Hanes Sweatpants that seemed vaguely familiar.
But, no.
It couldn’t be, could it?
All I know is that when I was five years old I really did see a magical man in red pants putting presents under my Christmas tree.
And if you are ever questioning what to wear this holiday season, red sweat pants are the safest possible choice. They just might preserve a childhood for several years to come.
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I was 14 before I confronted my mother about whether Santa Claus was real. Obviously I’d known logically for a while, but I didn’t want to believe it. When she admitted that she filled our stockings, I cried. It was a warm night in September, in the kitchen, after my sister had gone to bed. I don’t know what made me pick that moment. I held onto my grief for a few months until December came around, and then I came up with a plan. I got my sister (who is six years younger than me, but has always been much worldlier, she figured out what was up with Santa Claus long before me) to distract our mom when we were out shopping one day, and I bought my mother a beautiful glass rose, which I hid until Christmas morning. My sister was always the first one up, and she woke me, and I put the rose in my mom’s stocking, and then we grabbed our stockings and went to wake up our parents, just like always. My mom got up and came into the living room, and for the first time in 30 years, she saw something in her stocking that she hadn’t put there. I don’t care what anyone says, Santa Claus is totally real. And sometimes, I get to be him.
Love this story! I’m hoping I can, if need be, convince my kids that sometimes Santa wears pink plaid pajama pants.
This is so smart! A fantastic reason that my husband should never, ever wear anything but red sweatpants. Off to by some now–he will be thrilled. And this is such a sweet story đŸ™‚
On Christmas morning when my daughter was four, she was awakened by a tremendous thunder storm. She came into our bedroom, eyes all aglow, and asked if Santa had visited. I said that he had. She was disappointed she hadn’t heard him – and then there was a mighty bang that sounded like it was directly above our heads. Her eyes widened as she exclaimed, “That’s Santa! He’s landed on the roof!” She ran off to get an eye mask so that she wouldn’t be tempted to peak. And by sheer chance, that’s when my parents – visiting us in Australia from the US – got up and turned on the living room light. She raced back and said, “I saw a light on downstairs! Santa is putting out the presents!” A few minutes later there was another mighty bang and she exclaimed, “That was Santa! He’s left! We can go downstairs now!” You might say there’s no such thing as Santa; but I’m grateful for those little miracles that let us believe in something so magical and pure.