A Skeptical Ho

I remember the three bedroom duplex we lived in when I was five years old. It was a bi-level: when you walked in the front door you could go up to the bedrooms or down to the kitchen and living room. There was a really cool spot to hide under the main landing of the stairs and my brothers and I always made this our fort by hanging blankets over the open space secured on the floor of the foyer by books, shoes or anything we could find.

I was five and my brothers were 2.5 and almost 1 year. This was the year that Santa came to our house and died. I couldn't believe it. One snowy night the doorbell rang and it was HIM. I answered it and ran away in shock, leaving the door wide open. Nevermind, jolly old St. Nick( this happened to actually BE my Uncle Nick) brazenly walked in, cheerfully Ho Ho Ho-ing his way downstairs to our livingroom. I was suspicious.

All of that seemed to fade when he gave each of us a felt stocking with our names written cursively in glitter at the top and stuffed to the gills . I distinctly rememeber that we each received an orange. In days of old this was a traditional gesture, but in my little mind I was thinking the kindergarten equivalent of WTF.

We sat on his lap and told him what we wanted. Before we knew it he was out the door and gone. I didn't know what to think. It made going to bed on Christmas Eve rather difficult. We always opened our presents on Christmas morning. My parents put us to bed. I couldn't, couldn't, wouldn't sleep. I could hear them downstairs listening to music and laughing. I didn't sleep. After a few hours, I'm sure they thought we were all snuggly tucked away in sweet dreams. My brothers shared a bedroom with the crib placed strategically close to the door, always left ajar to hear baby James in case he cried.

I guess I was a skeptic from early on. Sometimes I really despise this about myself. I snuck into their room and wriggled under his crib, spying through the crack in the door. I had a full view of the hallway and later, my parents carrying all of the Christmas presents downstairs from their bedroom.

I was ruined. I never told them until I was an adult. Years later I took it upon myself to painstakingly open every single Christmas present they bought and wrapped for me without their knowledge. I put the tape back on so carefully you couldn't tell. I was getting a skateboard. I casually mentioned to my mom how I really hated skateboards(I lied) and the look on her face was worried, almost mortified. I think she caught on quick when I mentioned that I hated virtually everything they bought me.

How could I? What a rotten little kid, I think. Yet, my own behavior has prepared me well for Snowflake. I will never leave Christmas presents wrapped up, name tags "To: True From: Santa" laying lazily under my bed for him to discover. Now if I could just find someone to play Santa...