by Hannah Wolf

The first time I…

thought Santa wasn’t real, I opened the trash can Christmas morning to see the cookies and carrots I had left out for Santa and his reindeer the night before. I was in first grade, and people had tried to tell me Santa didn’t exist, but I kept denying it. I didn’t care if people made fun of me, I didn’t want to be placed on Santa’s naughty list.

I knew the Santa I believed in wouldn’t have just thrown away the cookies I made. So I quickly made up my own excuses for this incident. Maybe Santa was full from eating all the other kids’ cookies? Maybe his reindeer didn’t even like carrots?

Throughout my childhood, several occasions arose that made me question Santa’s existence.

For one thing, my Santa didn’t wrap his presents. But my cousins always bragged about “unwrapping” Santa’s presents. Why would he wrap their presents and not mine? This idea lacked consistency. Whatever the case, we both we’re still receiving presents from this mysterious man that supposedly came down our chimney while we were sleeping.

I always wondered why my parents never let me sleep on the couch by the fireplace to wait for Santa. They tried to say they were scared that I would fall off and hit my head on the coffee table. Maybe they were just scared I would see bicycle before they had the cameras rolling.

And that bicycle mysteriously happened to be the exact same hot pink, Barbie bicycle that Target sold. This was also the case with my Hello Kitty boombox that only Best Buy carried.

Like any other child, I spent hours writing the perfect letter to Santa. I explained how I should be on his “nice” list rather than his “naughty” list even if I didn’t make my bed sometimes. I told him, in specific order, everything I wanted. And I trusted my mom to take the letter to the post office while I was at school.

Sometimes I questioned if this letter even made it to the post office. There were a few times when I found the list in my mom’s purse. She told me that the mail was delayed a few days or that she hadn’t had time yet to run by the post office. Now that I think about it, her excuses never really made sense. Every time, I would tell myself that Santa would still know what I wanted even if he didn’t get my letter in time. He just knew.

One year my parents came home with a new puppy on Christmas Eve. I couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing Santa came a day early. I was also confused why my parents were carrying in a puppy rather than Santa shimmying down the chimney. Maybe he didn’t want to hurt him? Whatever the case, I was definitely surprised that Santa was able to make a puppy up in the North Pole’s toy shop.

Another thing that made me question Santa’s existence was the giftcards he would leave in my stocking. What made this suspicious was the fact that my name and the amount was always written in my mom’s handwriting. I must have been too happy to get gift cards to even recognize that detail though.

Despite all of these suspiscious times, my faith in my man Mr. Claus hasn’t changed. I make a plate of cookies for Santa and his reindeer. I stay up late on Christmas Eve, hoping (or fearing) that an old man will come into my home bearing gifts. Everytime I hear a noise that night, I wonder if there is a sleigh on my roof with eight reindeer and a big bag of gifts.

I’ll admit, part of the reason I believe in Santa is that I’m scared I won’t get presents when I stop. I also believe in Santa because it keeps me in the holiday spirit and adds to the wonderful atmosphere of Christmas.

Santa is real because I believe he is real.