OK. OK. So obviously Santa’s not real — I’ve known that for a few years now, c’mon who do you think I am? But truthfully, isn’t the holiday season just a little more fun when you pretend to believe? I think yes.
I even get my mind to leap hurdles to do so; the fact my parent’s house, where my siblings and I still go on Christmas morning, has a glass fireplace that Santa would get trapped in is just a minor detail.
If I can do it, you can too.
Believe it or not (haha, pun), the biggest believer in my family is my dad. I have never ever heard him say that Santa is not real.
When my English teacher in the sixth grade broke the news to everyone in class that Santa wasn’t real, like it was common knowledge or something, I turned to my trustworthy father knowing he’d tell me the truth.
I assumed he’d sit me down and explain the reindeer and the presents. The elves and the cookies.
But instead, my dad was shocked that I had mentioned such an absurd thing.
“Of course, Santa is real, honey!”
My dad’s holiday spirit probably hit its peak in 1999 when he went to great lengths to make sure my sisters, my brother and I were keeping the spirit alive.
Christmas 1999
On Christmas Eve, per tradition, we laid out the iced sugar cookies, a coffee cup full of milk and 9 carrots for the reindeer.
[Not an important detail, but I just realized that my dad has a bit of lactose intolerance. Where’d the milk go, DAAAAAD?!]
We woke up early on Christmas morning; we could never sleep past 6 a.m. when presents were just sitting in our living room waiting for us. We were itching to get out to see what Santa brought (gifts from him were always laid out and not wrapped, which made for quick elatedness and less work for my mom).
This year, my mom told us to bundle up — we had a surprise waiting outside.
Once we were in our heavy coats, snow boots and hats, we were led out past the Christmas tree and presents, through the candy cane forest and out onto the snowy back deck.
My dad told us to look up.
Santa had left large sleigh marks on the roof. His boot footprints (coincidently the same size 12 as my dad’s) flattened the powdery snow. There were hoof prints from Donner, Dasher and the gang, and they must’ve been in a real hurry because bites of carrots were scattered about.
There weren’t ladder marks on the deck indicating my dad had climbed up there. There weren’t steps from where the ladder should’ve deposited him on the roof. There was no evidence pointing to a Willsey family member of any sort.
Next logical answer was so obviously Santa (and at the time, that was the first logical answer, actually).
This is the reason I believed in Santa significantly longer than my classmates.
And now, 16 years later, if I ask my dad how he pulled off the mega Santa Surprise of 1999, he’d play dumb.
“What do you mean? Santa always lands on the roof,” he’d say.
Yes, Dad. He sure does.