|By Marczini at sxc.hu|
My Poppa (grandpa) had a very interesting sense of humour. Every year, at the Christmas Eve party he and my Nana hosted, he and his friends would spend a great part of the night taunting us children by scheming and sharing how, this year, they were going to catch Santa. They discussed plans for the perfect trap, shared how they had caught pieces of his beard in the past, and basically terrified us. Since Poppa's name was Gordon, and my dad's name is Murray, if he caught Santa, we'd go without gifts because Santa obviously distributed his gifts by using the phone book as a guide, and Adair, Gordon, came before Adair, Murray, in the phone book. Plus, there were all the other kids that wouldn't get gifts, like my friend, whose last name is Brown. My Poppa was going to be responsible for killing Christmas. It was a terrible idea.
Every year, when we got home from their party, I would try as hard as I could to go to sleep as quickly as possible. If Poppa didn't catch Santa, I certainly didn't want to be responsible for making Santa wait on the roof for me to fall asleep.
One year, I was too excited to sleep. I lay in my bed as still as I could, and was absolutely terrified when I heard the sound of a bag rustling. And rustling. And rustling. Holy crap, Santa was in my house, and I was awake. What if he caught me?
I stayed in bed, willing myself to fall asleep, eyes squeezed shut, barely breathing. Santa was in my house. The temptation to sneak out and catch a glimpse was overwhelming, but I couldn't risk being caught. Eventually, I drifted off, clutching the sheets tight in my hands.
When I woke up the next morning, I was so excited. Christmas had come, and it was another great one! On our way to my grandma's for Christmas dinner, I excitedly shared my Santa experience with my siblings.
And maybe I embellished a little.
Okay, a lot.
"I heard Santa last night." I proclaimed, to which my sister, Christa, upped me - "remember the time I heard jingle bells on the roof?"
I was not going to be upstaged. I'd basically met Santa the night before.
"Well, I saw Rudolph's nose!"
Oohs and ahhs filled the car.
"Tell us what happened!" my little brother piped up.
So I did.
I wove an intricate tale about my experience seeing Rudolph, in the house, his blinking nose, and Santa's bag. It was great. It would've been even more great had it been true.
My story was met with such enthusiasm, I just had to share it with all my cousins, and aunts, and uncles, and grandparents. They were all completely amazed at my experience, which just happened to get more and more elaborate as I went on. It was the best Christmas, ever!
In looking back, I can't help but be embarrassed. How must my parents have felt, listening to their child, the LIAR - not just telling one white lie, but getting more and more excited as she told this lie, and sharing it with rooms full of adults who knew that I was lying?
It's a good thing Santa isn't real, because he totally would've given me coal for that.
On a side note, I had to source a photo of Santa for a client, and let me tell you - that was one disturbing trip across the internets. There are many creepy Santas out there. And why are so many of them drinking wine? Don't get me wrong. I enjoy wine. But I thought Santa drank cookies, milk and Coca-Cola?!