This is when Santa existed no longer! I loved Christmas. For all the wrong reasons. Christmas was nothing to me when I was little, other than presents and good food. Christmas was all about me and that is why I loved it. The meaning behind Christmas meant nothing to me. I sat through my mother's Bible reading every year and rolled my eyes to myself thinking "Jesus is cool...but Santa is better." Though my mom tried her hardest to make Christmas meaningful, I had nothing to do with all that.
Christmas Eve would come and the clock would slow down, I swear. The Christmas Eve service lasted too long, and I would kick my leg constantly. Even when my mom put her hand on my leg and gave me the stink eye, I didnt stop. She would whisper, "Everyone on this pew can feel that!" Still didn't stop! How could you sit still when in mere hours Santa was going to come down your chimney? The service would FINALLY end and Mom would want to chat. I mean, how can you hold idle conversation when presents are coming? "Let's go Mom! If we aren't home, Santa will pass the log cabin on Poplarwood Road!"
When the garage door would rise and we were finally home, the anticipation grew. It was almost time. I would put my pajamas on and get on the couch and watch TV. Every year I would try and pretend to fall asleep on the couch so my mom would leave me there and I would catch a glimpse of the jolly man with the belly full of jelly. But every year, Deb would say to me, "Holly, you are not asleep. Get up and get in the bed." Reluctantly, I would rise from the couch cushion, give a dramatic little kick and sigh, and drag my feet to bed.
Each year, I NEVER slept. If I did, it was short and fitful. I would sit in the bed and listen very carefully to hear the sound of hooves and bells. Though I never heard these things, he never disappointed. I would get up around oh, 4 in the morning. I would go and wake up my parents in the back bedroom, jumping up the bed yelling, "It's Christmas! I think Santa came! It's Christmas!" My mom would groan and mumble, "Seriously?" Finally there was a rule made: if you can't see the sun, you can't wake anybody up.
The year of the bike, I went to bed with the dramatic kick and sigh and laid in waiting. But this year, I heard a noise. However, it was not hooves or bells, or the jolly laugh of the fat man. It was a low moan and a shake of the christmas tree. Excited, I rose. And then stopped. Should I really see Santa?? I mean, is it allowed? Will he be mad at me? I heard another noise and could not help myself. I swore to be very quiet and tiptoe and only see Santa with one eye, because the other would still be hidden behind the door frame. That way, Santa couldnt be mad, because he would never know I saw him. As I very quietly leaned ever so slightly around the door frame I gasped! What is this? This is no man with a red suit. This is my mother's behind covered in her pink bath robe as she bends over my brand new bike. Wait. BRAND NEW BIKE? OH YEAH!!! Wait, Wait, don't get side tracked....WHERE. IS. SANTA?? Why isn't he setting my bike under the tree?? Is it true? Could Kevin McCallisters brother Buzz be correct??? NO SANTA??? Does this mean Rudolph is a lie too?? And the elfs? How could this be? I'm so sad...but I still get presents, so does it matter who they come from? No. I guess it doesn't. As long as presents really exist, I'm cool. Okay, the panic has subsided!
So, as my mom continues to grab presents and I continue to duck my head inside my room when she is turned toward the hallway, I watch how hard she works to set things just so. And I am thankful she loves me and cares how the presents are set when my sister, with her bedhead, and me, with Grover in tow, walk down the hallway into the living room.
The dream of Santa was a sad one to lose. I felt I needed to keep this revelation to myself so next year I would still get presents from this ‘Santa’ And I carried on this charade for a long time. Even when my mother knew I didn't believe, I refused to let her wrap all the presents. Some still had to be unwrapped and presented as from Santa. Even at 19, Santa still came to the log cabin on Poplarwood Road.
Holly (aka The Sisda) lives in Tennessee with her husband Matt, and her three stinky fatty dogs, Billie Jean, Semper Fi, and Stella. She annoyed the crap out of her sister for about 18 years and then they kind of chilled and have been more like friends for close to 4 years. She is an excellent story teller and should probably start her own blog. Right?
