Poshdeluxe

better not pout

this morning, my co-worker told me about how her daughter, at age nine, still believes in santa. “is she too old to still believe?” anita asked me. she wasn’t worried, mind you, about her daughter’s fantasy life, but instead complained about how pretending to be santa was really getting to be a huge pain in her arse.

i tried to remember when i stopped believing in santa claus… i recall walking down the stairs of ascension day school while matt mckenzie (or maybe it was another boy– they all run together in my mind in a sea of loud obnoxiousness and fast, skinny legs) told me that of COURSE there wasn’t a santa claus and how could i be such a dumbhead?

but i fiercely resisted. i’d SEEN the movies. i’d READ polar express, and i wanted to hear the tinkle of that silver sleigh bell for my entire life.

and yet, a few years before, when my mother took me to see the acadiana mall santa claus, i refused to leave the department store dressing room. i was absolutely terrified.

yeah, i didn’t even make it near santa’s lap.

i guess i secretly knew that the mall santa wasn’t the same mystical figure of my dreams, the santa who sits by his cozy fire and reads children’s letters while sipping some (no doubt v. fine) hot chocolate.

as hard as i try, i can’t recollect when i stopped believing or why. maybe my parents finally told me? maybe one day it just stopped making sense, cos honestly, why didn’t the children in africa get presents, too? why was santa so stingy?

was i sad? upset? or did i take it in stride, since i was Older and Wiser?

i hate that i can’t remember, because i’m pretty sure that was my first experience with losing faith. and when i, digging through my mess of a brain, no longer find any memories of such a milestone, it feels as though i’ve assumed the life of a stranger.

i still miss putting out cookies and milk (and carrots for the reindeer. i always worried that people didn’t give them enough attention, even though they performed all of the manual labor). now, knowing the truth, i love the idea of my mom downing the milk and my dad gnawing off the end of a carrot. they wanted to keep the magic in my life a little longer…

but i cling to it, even though i don’t believe in santa anymore. i wish we still put out carrots for the reindeer. i wish i still stayed up, my ears straining for the sound of a sleigh hitting our roof.

maybe, though, it’s the wanting to believe that sustains the magic. there IS something amazing about the way christmas lights twinkle in the dead of night, the way gingerbread smells… not just a holiday magic, but an every day magic. i know it exists. i feel it.

i guess i just don’t want to be susan, who never came back to narnia, even though she fought battles there and trampled through piles of snow. she became too grown up to believe.

i never want to be too grown up. i promise.