Don’t worry, no punches to your feels on this one. I just figured I would honor my mother this week in a way she would have preferred. With the stupid shit.
I found out about Santa when I was two. I was hiding behind a violin case in a corner of the living room (who didn’t try to catch Santa) when I woke up from noises. I discovered my mom and grand setting out toys and such.
For a second, I felt hurt, lied to, betrayed. But my elitist only child syndrome kicked in and took over with the thought of “huh, well at least I don’t have to share.”
The following year… now this wasn’t my own memory (I have few solid ones), but one my mom shared…. in the wee hours of Christmas eve/Christmas morning, my mom was putting together some complex monstrosity on my behalf. She apparently busted her knuckle on it with a little whisper of “Shit!” and heard:
“Need some help?”
My mother turned to see me standing in a fleece onesie (with the squeaky, I loved that squeaky) rubbing an eye with my fist like I’d just crawled out of bed.
Not so much a mom story but a Christmas one…
The next year, my grand apparently lured a friend of hers over to play Santa for me and my cousins. The entire night, I tried to sniff a cologne I could recognize, or get a peek at a familiar whisker. I knew all of grand’s friends, so this was frustrating not to know who the heck this was.
It came time for Santa to leave and we all said good night. I lingered at the front door when it shut and waited exactly thirty seconds to fling the door open so I could catch the car he was leaving in. The yard was dark, the driveway empty save my grand’s car and the entire street was quiet. I only heard what sounded liked clomping on the roof.