Santa Memories

Photo: howcheng on Flickr

"Come here, Maggie," said my dad while patting his lap. My five or six-year-old self crawled up into the recliner and looked out the window while my dad pointed into the sky. "Do you see that?" he asked, indicating a bright, red light high in the air, "that's Rudolph's nose."

My much older siblings giggled a bit at the awed expression on my face. I couldn't understand why. This was Rudolph for heaven's sake. He had his own song. He was a movie star. He was the Brad Pitt of the reindeer set. The sighting of his nose-so-bright was irrefutable proof that Santa was on his way to our house.

To my siblings, that shining bit of red was merely the safety light on top of the nearby power plant. To me, it was sheer magic. For my dad, it was a chance to create joy for his youngest child... and that's a bit of magic, too.

I adopted my son when he was ten. Small for his age, he looked no more like a 10-year-old than a guppy looks like a whale, but in many ways he was older than his years. So when our first Christmas together rolled around I just didn't know what to expect. Did he believe in Santa? Or had he already stopped believing? With the broken childhood he had experienced, maybe he had never believed at all.

While writing and revising and editing his many Christmas lists, he alternately gave hints that he believed along with indications that he didn't. I decided to quietly play along -- not making a big deal about Santa (I didn't want him to think he HAD to believe), but also not destroying the myth.

As Christmas day drew near, I asked my son if he wanted to go see Santa. He looked a tiny bit embarrassed -- as if he were too old and too cool for something like that -- but he shyly said yes. We went to a local Santa house... so much more authentic than a mall Santa. The house is decorated with moving trains and toys and there are interesting things to see from floor to ceiling. We stood in line and, all embarrassment a thing of the past, my son thought and thought about what he wanted to ask Santa for. When it was his turn, my gangly boy climbed on Santa's lap. He told Santa (who was probably quite confused) that he was living with a new mom this year. Hey, my boy is smart -- he probably wanted to verify that Santa knew about his change of address.

After asking for an iPod and a pool table, we left. My son was grinning from ear to ear. So was I for that matter. I had adopted an older child, so I wasn't sure if I was ever going to be able to share that Christmas magic with my son. But that night was as magical as the power plant light that mysteriously turned into Rudolph's nose all those years ago.

Before Christmas my son admitted that he didn't really believe in Santa. And that was okay. Maybe he didn't believe in the magic itself, but he understood the importance of it... and that was magic enough for me.

What is your favorite Santa story? Share your story in the comments.