When I was a very small boy, my mother tucked me in on Christmas Eve... [View all]

[WilliamPitt]

...and ordered me, upon pain of Santa's vast disapproval, to stay put. I did as I was told, but tried very hard to stay awake so I could hear him arrive. I didn't last long...but at some point that night, I awoke to hear heavy footfalls across what sounded like the roof. Not long after, I heard my mother speaking to someone in hushed tones from the living room, and the tinkle of ice in a glass.

...the footfalls...the hushed talk...the glass...Mom gave Santa a drink of water! She was talking to Santa by the chimney!

The footfalls, of course, were my mother stomping across the attic right above my bedroom. The tinkle of ice in the glass was her own scotch, and the hushed conversation was the last part of the show. It worked; I believed, and a few lingering atoms in my soul still do, and I can't wait to run that same scam on my baby daughter Lola when she is old enough to appreciate it. Because it was perfect. Just perfect.

A wise friend told me that after her kids stopped believing in Santa, she sat them down and said they should still believe, because "Santa" is another word for a parent's love for their children. I plan intently on deploying that line as well, when the time comes.

Merry Christmas Eve, all. My very beloved best to you and yours.