Christmas of 1982 was magical.  There’s no other word for it.  Magical.  I was seven years old and still believed in Santa.  Santa was my hero and I had no doubt that he existed.  Christmas of 1982 solidified in my sweet little heart that he was the for real deal.  Every year we would go to church at four o’clock and as the sun sank in the stained glass windows, the congregation would light candles all from one flame that was passed from pew to pew illuminating the darkened church.  It always gave me chills and boiled my blood with excitement because this meant that church was almost over.  And with church almost over, that meant that we were on our way to my grandparents’ house and hour and a half away to open presents.  You know, presents, the true meaning of Christmas when you’re seven.

 I loved my grandparents in the summer and spring and fall.  I had a hard time loving them on Christmas Eve because they were what was standing in between me and the big man coming to my house.  Christmas Eve at my grandparents’ house was supposed to be filled with good tidings and cheer but for me it was torture.  I got to hang out with my cousins that I generally only saw on Christmas and that was fun, but still my cousins could never take the place of Santa.  I just wanted the night to be over.  I wanted to open the socks I knew I was going to get and be done with it.  I wanted to go home.

 On the ride home I always hoped for a window seat so I could press my little nose onto the frosted car window and stare hopefully into the sky looking for Rudolph guiding Santa’s sleigh.  I thought I saw him a few times as we passed what I now know are radio towers.  Maybe I even knew then that they were radio towers but had so convinced myself of Santa swooping up in that night sky.  When we would get home, I would glance into the living room that looked dead without the presents that should have been there waiting for me.  I would rush through brushing my teeth, skipping my molars completely, and jump into my cold bed squeezing my eyes shut waiting for sleep to come.  It never did because my stomach was filled with too much excitement.

 Christmas of 1982 was different.  I found that on the ride home I was almost too sleepy to look for Rudolph and knew that for once I was going to be able to sleep that night.  The ride was long and cold and I was happy when we finally pulled into the garage.  I had plans of going straight to bed because I was grateful for the tiredness.  I was trudging to my bedroom when my sister squealed in delight.  “He came! He came!” she was yelling and jumping up and down.  I had already passed the living room and didn’t remember seeing any presents so in my mind, Santa had come between the time I had passed the living room and the time my sister saw the presents.  I walked back to the living room and there stood the tree lit up (something my mom would never leave on when we left the house for fear of fire) and piles of presents neatly wrapped under the tree.  And to top everything off, there was a present caught in the doors of the fireplace like Santa was in such a hurry and was about to be caught that he was getting sloppy as he made his quick escape.  See?  Santa was real!  He came while we weren’t even home.  We must have been so good that year that he moved us up on his schedule.

 Christmas of 1983 was different.  That was the Year of the Cabbage Patch Kid and I oh-so-desperately wanted one.  Everyone wanted one.  I remember paying attention to the nightly news for the first time ever and all I saw were people in stores across the country fighting for these big-eyed dolls.  Women were throwing punches and pulling hair to get their hands on these adoptable dolls.  And I had to have one.  There was no way around it; my whole existence depended upon it.  I knew if I didn’t get a baby out of the garden, I would just shrivel up and die.  I remember going to the mall to sit on Santa’s lap and when I got up to him and sat down on his jiggley leg all he said to me was, “Let me guess, you want a Cabbage Patch Kid for Christmas, don’t you?” I nodded in amazement.  This guy was good!  He guessed my biggest wish so, therefore, he could obviously tell if I’d been bad or good so I was going to be extra good for goodness sake because I wanted that doll!

 Christmas Eve we did the whole church and grandparents’ house thing.  I pressed my nose against the glass looking for Santa’s sleigh.  I was vibrating with excitement.  There was no way that I was going to sleep that night.  On Christmas morning the living room was filled with presents.  I got some really good things too because as the pile of gifts got smaller I had almost forgotten about my desire for a Cabbage Patch Kid.  After my dad was finished handing out presents and my mom handed us a garbage bag to pick up all the wrapping paper I felt only a slight sinking in my stomach.  I wasn’t going to get what I really wanted, but I had a whole bunch of other really great stuff.  Dutifully I picked up the mess that I had helped create.  My dad went to unplug the tree when he took a step back in surprise.  “Wait!” he exclaimed.  “Hold the phone!  There’s two more presents back here!”  And he pulled out two identical boxes.

 “Ooh, they look similar so why don’t you girls sit back to back while you open them,” my mom said.  My sister and I always had to do this since we often got identical presents.  We girls snuggled our backs against each other’s as we waited for the familiar “ready set go” cuing us to start ripping.  My sister always was faster.  “OH MY GOODNESS!” she yelled.  It must have been something good.  I kept on ripping.  “OH MY GOSH!” I yelled.  Inside a cardboard box was my deepest desire.  I got a Cabbage Patch Kid!  She was as beautiful as those ugly dolls could be with her baby-shit brown hair and green eyes.  And her name was phenomenally gorgeous too.  Calantha Peg.  Really I thought the name was really weird because my sister’s doll’s name was almost beautiful, Gail Georgia, and she smelled like powder.  Mine smelled like just a doll but I didn’t care.  I got what every girl that Christmas wanted.  I was one of the lucky few, or millions, but my mom made sure we felt like we were amongst the few.  We weren’t allowed to take those dolls anywhere for my mom’s fear of them being stolen or other kids getting jealous. 

 A few days after Christmas and I still couldn’t take my eyes off of Calantha, my sister and I had a big blowout fight.  One for having the last word, my sister yelled after me as I was on my way out the door to tattle, “Yeah, well there is no Santa.”  I stopped dead in my tracks.  I had never heard such ridiculousness before.  But then I got to thinking.  I knew there was no Tooth Fairy.  I knew there was no Easter Bunny.  My heart sank.  It was obvious that Santa fit right into that same category as those other fake gift bearers.  I went to my mom who was sitting next to the Christmas tree in the living room.  I took a breath and asked her the question of my life. 

 “Is Santa Claus fake?” I asked.

 My mom put down her book and sighed.  “Well, Christmas is a feeling that’s in everyone.  Santa isn’t really real but part of him resides in all of our hearts, don’t you think?”  Um, no?

 I pulled Calantha from my chest and looked into her beautiful painted eyes.  “You mean you fought for her?” I asked.  At that moment I was filled with a huge amount of respect for my mom.  Here was a lady that seemed so calm and now I thought I was finding out that she had braved the crowds and nails and punches to get my sister and me what we really wanted for Christmas.  My heart was about to explode with love and respect and adoration for this woman who had not only given me birth but a Cabbage Patch Kid as well.

 “Oh no,” my mom said smiling and waving her hand in front of her face.  “I ordered those things back in August from the JC Penny’s catalogue when you guys saw them in the store and wanted them.  I was way ahead of the game, don’t you think?”  She tousled my hair and went back to her book.  My heart sank.  My beloved doll came from a catalogue?  That took all of the romance out of her.  I looked into her painted eyes and saw just that, painted eyes.  I shrugged my shoulders and decided that I was going to keep on loving my ugly little Calantha Peg.  She was mine. 

 That year I found out there was no Santa and that there was no fighting for my ensured happiness.  What was Christmas coming to?  Junk.  I don’t think Christmas has really been the same for me since.  I thought that when I had kids who believed in Santa my Christmas spirit would be renewed as I watched their excitement.  Nope.  It wasn’t.  My kids have never seemed as excited as I used to be for Christmas.  Maybe it’s because I didn’t play it up as I should have.  Maybe it’s because I’m still harboring resentment that my doll wasn’t fought for because my mom had enough foresight to get them in the summer.  Well, she didn’t enough foresight when the stock market crashed and she lost thousands and thousands of dollars.  Well, maybe we can call that one good.