I don't know how much longer I can stay awake. I started this evening with the determined resolve to catch the Big Guy in the act. All the stories said he would come, usually down the chimney, but lacking a chimney, I was certain he'd use one of the two doors in this little house. I wasn't allowed to stay up and wait in the living room where I'd be sure to see him as he made his grand entrance with his red suit, jelly belly, rosy cheeks and his toy sack filled to the brim slung over his shoulder. But I could lay in my bed all attentive, knowing just what a jiggling door handle sounded like. Surely a sleigh being pulled by 8 tiny reindeer couldn't make a whisper-quiet landing on the roof. I was ready to spring out of bed at the first sign of any noise out of the norm.
Did I just hear something? I'm not sure, but I think I drifted off there for just a second. I must stay awake. I must stay...wait a minute. If he notices we don't have a chimney, will he land in the yard instead? That means I won't hear him on the roof. And then there's the tree. It's not real. It's not even green. It's shiny aluminum. Does that matter? Will it make a difference? Will he see the metallic glow and miss the fact that it's a tree, and not a low-hanging disco ball?
Have I been good enough this year? It wasn't my fault that I was left behind that one time when we were going to town because I was dragging my feet when Mom said to "hurry up if you don't want to be left behind." And I didn't flip the bird to my teacher. That was my ring finger. I have a hard time believing that he could see my intent, but couldn't see which finger I threw up. And, of course I didn't mean to laugh and call my sister names. I thought we were playing reindeer games...
I wonder what I'll get this year? I remember the best toy from last year. It was a Steve Austin 14-inch Action Figure with bionic eye (miniature spy glass through his head), bionic hand grip action, with crystal radio backpack. The radio had an earpiece and a long wire with an alligator clip to clip onto something metal that touched the earth to ground the crystal. It actually worked! Sort of. I enjoyed that gift about as much as I did my Evel Knievel on a rip-cord motorcycle and G. I. Joe action figure with rotating wrist (for hand-held rotor blades).
I don't even know what time it is. All I know is I gotta pee, but I can't keep my eyes open any longer. I must fight sleep! I must stay awake! I know I can do...
I'm being shaken. The bedroom is lit with a glow from the morning sun and my brother wants me to wake up. It was then that I realized I had failed. I had fallen asleep and missed Santa. It was Christmas morning. There were presents at the foot of my bed and presents under the tree. The stockings were filled with nuts and fruits and candies and little toys. The presents on the bed were wrapped; the ones under the tree were not. The wrapped ones were from Mom; unwrapped, from Santa. What did I see under the tree? There was a Tonka truck, a Ford Bronco with a shop jack in the bed and a winch on the front bumper. There was more than enough room for Steve and Joe to ride, and perhaps a little room for Barbie in there as well.
It was a good Christmas. There was still that bit of belief in its magic. There was still the mystery and childlike wonder at the appearance of gifts where there were none before. There was the spirit of giving and, I won't lie, getting. There was just one thing...
As I sit here and type this memory of a magical morning from my distant youth, I know what that one thing was, even though I wasn't aware of it for quite some time. Christmas was always special. We were never loaded down with gifts. We got something we wanted and something we needed. It was a perfect balance. We were kids, and kids want things and need things. Kids want to believe what you tell them. You tell them that this magical dude flies around the world to all the good boys and girls delivering gifts, and, lo and behold, there's gifts under the tree, they're gonna believe you. But that one thing...
I remembered more from that night than I thought. Even in a deep sleep, the need to go to the bathroom has great waking power. I remember getting up. I remember opening my door slowly, trying not to make noise that would wake anyone up. I remember turning as I shut my door, and as I did, I barely saw a movement in the direction of my grandmother's (whom we all called "Mom") bedroom. And what I didn't notice until after I'd come back from the bathroom, were shadows of things under the tree. Of course, I didn't go to investigate, because I'd been told to stay in bed. Bathroom break exempted, of course.
I believe that was my last Christmas truly believing in Santa Claus. It wasn't this earth-shattering revelation; something I'd one day be telling a therapist as I reclined on a couch. It wasn't something that changed my childhood forever, claiming lies over truth that would cause emotional scars. And maybe it really wasn't a total disbelief in the Big Guy, but perhaps the seeds of doubt were planted with a simple fleeting glimpse in a dark room of someone I knew and loved. I knew the presents at the foot of my bed were from her. She told us so. But making us believe that there were presents that were not from her? I didn't see the harm in that.
Did I, when my kids were old enough to comprehend the concept of Christmas, let them believe as I once did? You bet I did. Did I, once they were old enough to decide on their own and begin to question, tell them the truth? Once again, yer darn tootin' I did. But just as my grandmother did, I left a little bit of mystery; a little bit of wonder to live on as a spirit of the season. There would always be one present that I had no clue where it had come from. And all of this was done with a wink and a nod. They knew, just as I did.
The spirit of Christmas isn't something that you unwrap on Christmas morning. It isn't a song you hear on the speakers over the din of frenzied shoppers looking for the perfect gift at the store. It isn't opening up the card at the company Christmas party and getting what you deem to be an insufficient bonus. It's the fact that you got one at all. It's singing along with the song you hear at the store. It's the feeling of being loved enough to have something given to you. It's giving to others and getting love in return.
This Christmas is going to be meager on both the giving and the getting of stuff. We all want stuff. I admit it. Not so much for me, but I like to give my kids things. They know how it is. They know that "Santa" is broke this year. Sure, there will be things under the replacement tree (fake ficus) and they know I try to give to them year-round. Me? If I want something, I just get it, if there's money to get it with. There are so many things I want...I had...that money can't buy. Those things slip through my fingers so easily.
This is something that I want my kids to know this Christmas day:
We may not have a tree, but I hope that you develop roots. Roots in good moral behavior. Roots in caring about other people. Roots in doing what you know is right in your heart.
There may not be lots of presents, but I will do my best to give you a future. A future where you can look back on your past and say, "I did my best." A future where faith holds promises for you. I'm not the best believer, and you know you're free to make your own choices in this matter, but example is a great teacher.
Giving. Loving. Family. Faith. To me, this is the spirit of this season. It's something we all need, and get too little of. Give some...get some.
Oh, and that Tonka truck I got that Christmas morning? I still have it.
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