Molly's Musings: "The Truth" (Printed Dec. 21, 2007)
In the spirit of my festive column photo, I began to
think about past holidays and memories that I haven’t taken the time to
remember in recent years.
I started to think back to when I learned the tragic secret about Santa Claus. Oddly enough, it was one Easter morning, not Christmas, that I figured it out.
Every year Santa and the Easter Bunny liked me so much they used to leave notes, thanking me for snacks I left them and being good throughout the year. On Christmas and Easter mornings my parents stationed themselves downstairs before they opened the “gates” after which I would come barreling down the stairs to find what ever surprises these wonderful and mysterious entities left me.
That Easter morning was like any other, except I noticed something about the note. The Easter Bunny’s handwriting was peculiarly similar to my father’s. The jig was up – those years of charades were over and I knew a secret that I could never reverse.
I didn’t let it be known that I knew the secret. I remember feeling a little embarrassed and ashamed actually. At what, I can’t recall. Maybe I was embarrassed for being fooled and felt stupid for believing that every year a giant rabbit and a fat man in red were sneaking into my home and eating my food in exchange for gifts.
Maybe I was just a little sad because I knew the magic was gone and it was something I would never get back.
The appeasing child that I was, I decided that I couldn’t let my parents know I was on to them. I didn’t want them to be disappointed, knowing how much effort they must have put toward Christmas and Easter since I was born.
I don’t remember exactly how long it went on, but I think it was long enough that my parents began to worry that there was something a little bit wrong with me.
Despite that infamous note, I still have to wonder. I mean, how can I dispute our weekly interview on page 8 of this week's Post. There's some pretty serious information in that interview with Santa – bits of information that just couldn't be made up and details so distinct that I think I might have a change of heart regarding St. Nick this year.
Besides, who wants to stop believing in magic?
I started to think back to when I learned the tragic secret about Santa Claus. Oddly enough, it was one Easter morning, not Christmas, that I figured it out.
Every year Santa and the Easter Bunny liked me so much they used to leave notes, thanking me for snacks I left them and being good throughout the year. On Christmas and Easter mornings my parents stationed themselves downstairs before they opened the “gates” after which I would come barreling down the stairs to find what ever surprises these wonderful and mysterious entities left me.
That Easter morning was like any other, except I noticed something about the note. The Easter Bunny’s handwriting was peculiarly similar to my father’s. The jig was up – those years of charades were over and I knew a secret that I could never reverse.
I didn’t let it be known that I knew the secret. I remember feeling a little embarrassed and ashamed actually. At what, I can’t recall. Maybe I was embarrassed for being fooled and felt stupid for believing that every year a giant rabbit and a fat man in red were sneaking into my home and eating my food in exchange for gifts.
Maybe I was just a little sad because I knew the magic was gone and it was something I would never get back.
The appeasing child that I was, I decided that I couldn’t let my parents know I was on to them. I didn’t want them to be disappointed, knowing how much effort they must have put toward Christmas and Easter since I was born.
I don’t remember exactly how long it went on, but I think it was long enough that my parents began to worry that there was something a little bit wrong with me.
Despite that infamous note, I still have to wonder. I mean, how can I dispute our weekly interview on page 8 of this week's Post. There's some pretty serious information in that interview with Santa – bits of information that just couldn't be made up and details so distinct that I think I might have a change of heart regarding St. Nick this year.
Besides, who wants to stop believing in magic?
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