Gather ye round

Growing up, I had all the benefits of having an older brother. Yes, the disillusionment, the face farting, the wrestling practice—all the benefits of having an older brother. If you, dear reader, did not have the pleasure of growing up with an older brother, then I pity you deeply, and I send you my most sincere regards in this season of sharing.

My beloved Older Brother convinced me there was no Santa pretty early on. I don’t remember when the knowledge was granted, exactly, but I know positively it must have come from him.

One holiday, when I was less than four years old, Older Brother got two flashlights and pulled me along with him to look for Christmas presents. He thought he couldn’t get in trouble if I was along for the ride. While I don’t remember the event well, I do remember being perplexed because “Santa brings the presents.” Why would they be in our parents’ closets?

Our family lived in my grandmother’s sprawling five-bedroom house, so there were lots of places to check. My granny wasn’t very healthy at the time, and she was supposed to be babysitting us, but really my brother was in charge. Hence the sweep for presents. Granny must have heard us knocking around upstairs, because she climbed that long flight of stairs to the second floor and found us in the hall closet.

“What are you two doing in there?”

And what did I say? “Looking for presents,” smiling gladly to share the fun with Granny.

My Brother said, “No, you dummy!”

And so the search for Christmas presents concluded abruptly, with discipline.

Around the age of six or seven, my unbelief in Santa was pretty much cemented. I knew with the unwavering certainty granted by Older Brother that our parents were responsible for providing things on the Christmas list.

Later, sitting at the kitchen table with my best girl friend and her little sister while their mother washed dishes, I announced, “There’s no such thing as Santa.”

Dishes clattered, I kept coloring on my piece of paper, and the two sisters stated at me open mouthed.

“Mom?” my friend’s voice quavered, “There’s a Santa, right?”

The mother replied, “Christine, I think your mom is calling you.”

“OK. See you guys later.” My mom wasn’t calling. The phone hadn’t rung, she didn’t send psychic shock waves summoning me, there were no smoke signals. Mom didn’t need me home. But I was going anyway.

I never thought too much about the Santa thing: it just wasn’t a big deal to me. But then the unthinkable happened. Santa came to town. Not mall Santa, REAL Santa.

My parents packed me up in the car for an unusual weeknight visit to my friend’s house. In the first place, we never drove because it was just two blocks away, and in the second place, we never started our visits at night. Innocent Christine didn’t weigh these factors heavily though.

On our arrival, nothing was amiss. We were a little more dressed up than usual, but nothing too alarming. We just sat around in the living room while the grown-ups talked and we played a game.

And then the doorbell rang. “Who could it be?” asked my friend’s father. “It’s Santa!”

“Ho ho ho!” came a jolly voice at the door.

No way! I just said Santa didn’t exist, and now he’s at my best friend’s front door? He knows I’ve been naughty! He knows I’ve been telling lies about him! He’s right here!!!

Total panic mode. I ran up the stairs lickety-split and hid under my friend’s thankfully tall bed. Since she didn’t have the benefit of an older brother, so she followed everything I did, and she ran right behind me to hide under the bed.

“Girls, Santa has other children to see. He’s only here for a little while so you should come down and see him.”

“Ho ho ho!” came a jolly voice from downstairs.

I shivered in fear.

“Girls, come downstairs, Santa has to leave.”

Still shivering.

Eventually, one of the adults came to get us from upstairs. I only remember that night in wiggly lines with blurred colors and the effects of vertigo. I was so terrified of real Santa, that I was incapacitated. I remember knees wobbling like a bowl full of jelly, legs trembling like eight anxious reindeer, and eyes twitching like little reindeer noses.

I guess I was forced to sit on Santa’s lap. I guess I told him what I wanted for Christmas. But I was most grateful that I hid under the bed so long, I only had to sit with Scary Psychic Santa for a minute.

Thank you for the best blessing an Older Brother could wish for, Santa: scaring his little sister half to death.