Ho Ho Hop: Why Correlation is Not My Strong Suite

I read “Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing” the summer before second grade. I’ve always been ahead of my time. This was how I learned that either Santa wasn’t real or Judy Blume was fooling generations of children. I didn’t want to believe either thing, but in the end, it was easier to swallow the Santa-shaped pill. I confronted my parents.

“Is Santa real?” My mother didn’t say a word, only looked at my father, whose face showed signs of both heartbreak and resolve. He had known this would be coming; he just wasn’t prepared for the conversation in the middle of June.

“Why do you ask, Panders?”

“I’m reading a book, and there’s a part about how Santa isn’t real.”

“What the hell kind of books are you letting her read?” He is addressing my mother.

“It’s Judy Blume, Daddy!” He is unmoved by my proclamation. Daddy was probably too busy reading “Animal Farm” at my age to know anything about Judy Blume.

“You taught her to read early, and now she reads above her grade level.” My mother gives him that shrug that implies, “You created this monster.”

My father never wanted to lie to me if he didn’t have to. Cultivating a Christmas tradition based on fantasy and miracles to give his child magical Christmas experiences was one thing; outright lying when asked a direct question was another thing entirely. And Daddy wasn’t down for it.

“No, Baby Girl, he is not. At least not in the way you’ve imagined him. But the spirit of Santa is very real for some people. For the people who believe in the magic of Christmas, the spirit of Santa shows itself every day, not just in December.”

I’m seven. I read above grade level, but that doesn’t always mean I comprehend above grade level. I’m looking at Dad with a look of utter confusion.

“Think about Nanny and Papa.” My grandparents. My mother’s folks.

“You know how there are always treats and goodies waiting for you whenever you’re there? How Nanny loves playing cards with you and Papa loves making milkshakes with you.” I was very aware, but what was he getting at?

“Or how Papa dresses up as Santa every year for you kids?” Wait, what?

Every year, my family gathered at my grandparents on Christmas Eve. Gifts were exchanged, and snacks were had. The adults got drunk on liquor, and the kids got drunk on sugar and dreams. And every Christmas Eve, Santa himself would take time out of his busy delivery schedule to come visit my cousins, brother, and I. Or instead, as I was finding out, my Papa did. It makes way more sense in retrospect.

My parents explained that spoiling the magic for others who still believe would be unkind and un-Santa-like. It was an unfair ask. Do you mean to tell me that I have to keep up the charade for these babies who still get to believe while I’m over here knowing the sad truth? For a short while, I was envious of my classmates. I felt like they were getting an extension on childhood while I was working my butt off to keep it going for them. Still, I walked away from that conversation feeling immensely grown, like I was in on an adults-only secret. Ultimately, that was enough to sway me over to the side of good and graciousness.

Summer turned to fall and morphed into the holiday season. I was primed and ready to join the adults in making merriment for the children, some of whom were older than I, thank you very much. And while it nearly killed me not to share that I was smarter and more grown than them, I made it by the grace of the Spirit of Santa all the way through Christmas without ruining it for anyone, except maybe for my parents. They must have been saints not to kill me that holiday season, given how absolutely intolerable I must have been at home about the entire thing.

Somehow, we all persevered as Advent flowed into the Lenten season, and we planned for the Easter holiday as we would any other - with blind folly and terrible communication skills. Easter has always been a contentious, sometimes traumatic holiday for me. Never mind the fact that the entire holiday is built around the idea of a man being tortured and slayed, then coming back to life somehow after several days. It’s all very confusing for children. But I’m not even talking about that. I’m referring to the Easter that my beloved parakeet died, and I was served some nonsense about how the Easter Bunny must have needed him to help deliver eggs. Besides that, most Easters seemed to end (or even begin) with loads of family drama.

But that Sunday morning when I woke up to find everything just as it is on any other given Sunday, I lost my ever-loving mind. It was Easter Sunday. I was quite certain of that. Yet there were no eggs, baskets, chocolate bunnies, or remnants of colorful plastic “grass” littered around the house. Just my mother shouting for me to get my butt in gear and get dressed for mass. There were no signs that the Easter Bunny had been anywhere near our house. Was he running late?

“Did the Easter Bunny come this morning?”

“Excuse me?” I hadn’t heard my mother burp.

“Did the Easter Bunny come?”

“Girl quit messing around and get dressed.”

“It is Easter, right?”

“You don’t believe in the Easter Bunny anymore.”

The hell I didn’t.

“What are you talking about?” My entire life was crumbling around me where I stood.

“Remember? Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing? You learned that Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy were all made up?”

“What? The Tooth Fairy isn’t real either?!?”

“I knew it was too good to be true - how well she was taking it.” My father has joined the conversation.

“You knew about this the whole time and didn’t tell me?!?” I am incredulous. I feel betrayed by my father. I am heartbroken.

The rest of that day was a complete and total loss. I pouted all the way through mass and our family Easter dinner.

As an adult, I pursued a career in dental hygiene because we all know that hygienists are professional tooth fairies. And with every new tooth I collect, I can feel myself getting closer and closer to the truth. Until I uncover the greatest secrets in the history of magic and enchantment, I encourage my readers to continue or reestablish a habit of leaving goodies and refreshments for Santa and his crew. Maybe he stopped coming because we stopped leaving cookies. And we only stopped leaving cookies because our parents told us Santa wasn’t real. I think you can see where I’m going with this.

Never stop questioning! 😉

Happy holidays to all and to all a lifetime of curiosity, imagination, delight, magic, wonder, and spirit!

Click Here to Subscribe to be notified of new Blogtent (blog content)!