The Evolution of Believing in Santa Claus

There’s a home movie of me at 20 months old in my white Christmas dress and patent leather shoes. It’s 1987, and I’m holding my mom’s free hand as she cradles my newborn brother in the crook of her arm. We’re walking up a green Astroturf-covered ramp to a black sleigh surrounded by pots of poinsettias and animatronic woodland animals where Santa Claus is waiting.

I’m waving from the bottom of the ramp, but as we get closer to Santa, I start to pull on my mom’s arm until I’m practically dragging her back down the platform. My mom laughs and calls my dad filming from below to help.

The footage cuts. When it resumes, Santa is holding my brother in his left arm, and I’m placed on his right knee. I scream, contorting my body, and my face turns red as if I’m being tortured.

The camera cuts again, and when it resumes, I’m cool as a cucumber as we walk through the rest of the nursery, admiring the lights on the display trees that lead to the reindeer pen. We loop back around once more, and I wave to Santa from afar. Apparently, I like him best from 20 feet away.

Fear to fascination with Santa Claus

This is a standard toddler interaction with St. Nick. Once we’re old enough to know what’s going on but not old enough to have gotten used to that white beard, it’s terrifying. And it takes years to get comfortable with the event. Intimidation slowly turns to excitement as we grow anxious to share our wish lists with Santa, and even pass on our siblings’ demands.

The first Christmas I remember actually talking to Santa, I asked for a Barbie Corvette and a Barbie Soda Shop. I did get the soda shop but a Ferrari instead of the Corvette. Close enough. I just needed some cool wheels for Barbie, and Corvette was easier to say.

It helps to have a patient and friendly Santa who encourages you to speak up and even throws in a few extra presents: “How about a coloring book and crayons? A new doll? A ball?”. Sure, sure, whatever you think, Santa.

Our yearly trip to the nursey to see Santa gave us a consistent Santa that we grew comfortable with as our family grew from me and my brother to two younger sisters as well, each who had to go through the four phases of Santa Claus: indifference, fear, shyness, and eagerness. I don’t think I ever believed that the Santa I visited was the same Santa was the one who visited our house on Christmas Eve. After all, there were so many Santas out in the world. The real Santa didn’t like to be seen. This was just a photo op and brainstorming session to figure out what I really wanted for Christmas.

What to ask for

The bombardment of toy commercials, catalogues and the toys we played with at our friends’ houses provided tons of inspiration for our Christmas lists. But more than anything, I liked to be surprised on Christmas. If I asked for something and I got it, it wasn’t much of a surprise.

My favorite gifts were the things that I didn’t know I was getting, like a new bike, or the big gifts meant for all of us, like the Fisher Price pool table we received one year or a DVD player another. Even simple art supplies, Disney merch, or movies on VHS were the best surprises. How did Santa Claus know I would like that? How does he know me so well?

Explaining away the questions

In school, the subject of Santa often came up around Christmastime. My friends and I would try to fill in the holes in the story we were being told to keep the narrative going, but the older you get, the more you have your doubts. Why does Santa have the same handwriting as my mom? How did my dad seem to know what I was opening before I’d even opened it, or at least get excited as if he knew it was going to be something awesome? Why in Christmas movies did the parents not believe in Santa Claus but never questioned how all of those presents appeared under the tree?

One time, I walked into my parents’ room in the middle of the day. The door was shut, which it never was, but I opened it anyway to see what my mom was doing. Her closet doors were open, and she was kneeling on the floor.

Inside the closet, I could see giant bags full of toys. Gator Golf was one toy that I remember clearly, a golf game whose object was to putt a plastic golf ball with a plastic putter up a plastic alligator’s mouth and into its tail which would then fling the ball back to you. When my mom saw me standing there staring at Gator Golf, she stood up real fast, said, “You’re not supposed to be in here,” and closed the door in front of me while I stood dumbfounded in the hallway.

Later, when my brother opened Gator Golf on Christmas morning, it occurred to me, our parents get us some toys too, not just the clothes. No wonder why she kept going out late at night and would return and head straight upstairs after. It made me nervous, her being out and about while the rest of us sat around the TV watching Christmas cartoons.

The Santa bill

As we grew older, our Christmas wish lists got pricier. My brother got a Super Nintendo Entertainment System the year he turned five. This was a gift he had not asked for, but it hooked him on video games from then on. So, a few years later, he asked for a Sony PlayStation. That is when my parents introduced the concept of the Santa Bill.

Apparently, Santa didn’t deliver gifts for free. He charged. I don’t know if he made a profit or just sold stuff at-cost, but our parents were footing the bill for his troubles. We would write up our lists and hand them over to our mom. Then, she would make a master list, folding a piece of notebook paper into four sections and designating a section for each of us.

She then told us that she would send this list in to Santa for us. However, I would see her referring to this piece of paper throughout the month. Apparently, a duplicate copy would be mailed to the North Pole.

Our mom took our lists really seriously. We would flip through the Toys “R” Us Big Toy Book and circle our selections before writing them down. Pre-Santa Bill, we would circle something on every page, and she took that to mean we really really wanted it when really, we were just thinking, well, if it’s free, then I’ll take one of those too.

No more free toys

We weren’t blind to the fact that money was always tight. Four kids in an often one-income household was a stretch. But my dad worked a ton of overtime, and my mom was a master budgeter. So, they made it work. We knew better than to ask for a candy bar in the grocery store line or to beg for a toy for no reason at all. Toys were for birthdays and Christmas, and Christmas especially was a free for all. That Santa Bill really dashed that notion.

So, when my brother got the PlayStation, he ran over and hugged my mom.

“But that was from Santa,” she said.

“But you paid the Santa Bill,” he said.

Later, my mom said to me that she wondered if he was beginning to not believe in Santa at that moment. I told her, no, he just lost the belief that Christmas presents were free.

Other kids trying to spoil things

There were other indications that Santa wasn’t real. Other non-believing kids were a major culprit. I remember sitting inside of a bathroom stall at school and hearing one of my classmates, a Jehovah’s Witness, telling her friends that Santa isn’t real; it’s just your parents.

I don’t remember their reaction, but in my head, I immediately dismissed her. Of course she would think that; she doesn’t believe in Christmas. She never sang in our holiday music program, and she would leave early on the day of our class Christmas party. So, there’s no way she got presents on Christmas Day.

We also had a few friends whose parents were divorced and had been told early on that there was no Santa Claus. They tried to relay the message to us. I fought back and told them they didn’t believe in Santa cause they were so bad that Santa wouldn’t bring them anything. Even though I had my doubts and questions, I pushed them all out of the way because I really wanted to believe. So, I always explained the doubts it away.

Growing out of it

The year that my youngest sister was born was the year that I stopped believing in Santa Claus. I was nine, turning 10 in April, and Christmas was over. My mom was putting away laundry in my brother’s room, and I had come upstairs. She called me over while the other three were downstairs, and she said she had something to tell me about Santa.

“He isn’t real,” I guessed.

“Yeah. How did you know?” she asked.

I said I didn’t, but if she said it wasn’t true, and I had been having my doubts as well, then that was what I needed to hear in order to kill the illusion.

“I just know you’re getting older, and I didn’t want kids teasing you at school,” she said.

Everything now made so much sense. That’s why we returned gifts to the store instead of to The North Pole. That’s why there were no soot prints in the carpet from Santa coming down the chimney after our Christmas Eve fire had been put out.  That’s why our mom was always so stressed out in December. And now, the magic was gone.

Santa’s elf

After that, I was the Santa Claus lookout. I could go to the store with my mom and help pick out toys for the rest of the kids. I could keep them from running to the door whenever my mom came in with presents. She could now vent to me whenever she was getting overwhelmed.

In a way, my disbelief came at the right time. The following year, my baby sister came down with severe pneumonia. My mom took her to the doctor on December 23^rd after I noticed that she was struggling to breathe, even when she was just sitting still. When they came home, my mom told us to get our coats and shoes on. She was going to drop the rest of us off at our grandfather’s and take my sister to the ER. The baby was practically in respiratory distress at that point.

We spent the afternoon at our grandfather’s biting our knuckles and waiting for some news. Our dad picked us up after work, and we learned that our mom and sister were not coming home that night.

Our dad was off for Christmas Eve, and that day, he told me that he was going down to the basement to put my middle sister’s bike together and to make sure that she stayed upstairs. I did, but it wasn’t easy. She often poked her head through the basement door and yelled down to him to ask what he was doing, and I would tell her to get away from the door. The rest of the time, I paced around the house, now knowing all of the preparations it took my mom on Christmas Eve to set up for the next day and not knowing where to begin or how to help.

When reality hits

We went to visit our sister in the hospital that night. My dad planned to stay the night with her while my mom went home to get things ready. It was still iffy whether or not our baby sister would be home on Christmas Day. She was getting better, but she still needed to improve in order to be released. I remember it starting to snow as I looked at her hospital room window at the city streets below.

I went home feeling a little better that my mom was there to take over. But I went to bed still anxious about the following day. Would we be spending Christmas at the hospital?

Our typical Christmas morning consisted of waiting at the top of the stairs while our parents lit a fire, made their coffee, and plugged in the tree. Then, my dad would break out the video camera and record us coming down the stairs and capturing the reaction of our gifts as we rounded the corner, crossing through the dining room and kitchen to our game room where our mounds of presents would be waiting.

That year, my mom told us to just come down while we waited around to go to the hospital. We sat around, staring at our unopened pile of presents, anxious and depressed. We dressed up in our Christmas dresses, and my brother wore his Tasmanian Devil Christmas sweatshirt. Then, we headed out. Before she shut the door, my mom told me to just wait in the car while she brought up the bike for our middle sister and the plastic table and chairs she had bought for our baby sister. The other kids questioned what was taking so long, and I assured them that Mom was just getting something and would be out in a minute.

Leaving illness behind

When we got to the hospital, we learned that the baby could come home. We were so excited. I dressed her in her Christmas dress, and we kids chased her around the nurse’s station while our parents received her breathing treatment equipment that she would need for the next few weeks. She was almost the same age I was when I was pulling against my mom on that platform, determined not to sit on Santa’s lap.

We left the hospital while dozens of other sick children stayed behind, their Christmases ruined while ours was saved at the 11^th hour. My brother too had been in the hospital as an infant around Christmastime, having to undergo surgery at a year old. I had been too young to remember most of that ordeal, and I missed being oblivious to these serious situations.

Santa’s second visit

When we got into the house, we waited by the front door while my mom plugged the tree back in, and my dad turned on the video camera. There’s footage of us entering the room all dressed up instead of in our pajamas as in every other year of our childhoods. I’m holding the baby, and the other two kids cry out upon seeing the bike and table and chairs now sitting in the living room which had not been there that morning.

Both girls ran to their respective gifts while the rest of us looked on.

“This wasn’t here this morning!” our mom cried out incredulously, “Did Santa come while we were gone?”

With those two gifts, my mom kept the believe in Santa alive for my younger siblings, and I felt good for the small part I played in pulling it off. But that year changed my entire outlook on Christmas.

The evolution of believing in Santa Claus

Christmas isn’t the same since I stopped believing in Santa Claus. The stress, commercialism, and the chaos really gets to me. The roads are more dangerous as people rush to get their shopping done. People are pushier and ruder. Decorating, baking, buying, writing Christmas cards, and wrapping, are now added to your to-do list on top of all of your other chores and obligations. The short, gloomy days weigh down your mood.

Inevitably, some acquaintance or co-worker will surprise you with a scented candle the day before Christmas Eve, and you’ll have to run out and buy them a scented candle in return. Someone is likely to be sick, even you. Relatives from your past are no longer around. Tragedies still occur, and the celebratory atmosphere only makes it worse for those grieving or recovering from their terrible situations. It’s hard to dedicate a holiday to being happy, healthy, and prosperous when there’s no guarantee that you will be happy, healthy, and prosperous when the time comes to celebrate.

I’m glad that I believed in Santa Claus for as long as I did. Otherwise, I probably would have always hated Christmas. It was a letdown when he wasn’t real, but I think I learned it at the right time. Eventually, childhood ends. You stop playing make believe. So, it’s easier to stop believing in this far-fetched notion, especially after your parents, who started you believing in Santa in the first place, gives up the charade on their end.

Whether or not to believe at all

I know that a lot of parents nowadays tend to not to let their kids believe in Santa from day one. And I can see where they’re coming from. Some worry about feeding lies to their children at an early age only to be told later that it was all made up. Others don’t have the money to spend on presents or the notion that if you didn’t get what you want, you probably weren’t good enough rather than the fact that your parents just weren’t rich enough.

But you only get a few years where you’re innocent enough to believe in magic, and there aren’t too many imaginary, magical symbols that its acceptable to believe in, even in childhood. So, I’m pro-Santa Claus, at least for the first nine or ten years of your life. I still get excited for the kids who believe and are oblivious to the work that goes into keep that belief alive. And in that way, I guess I do still kind of believe in Santa Claus.

What are your experiences, if any, with Santa Claus? Leave your stories in the comments below!

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