🎁 My Santa discovery story
It involves a bold request for my dog and a Matchbox Twenty song...
***IMPORTANT: Please be sure you close out of this story (and perhaps remove it from your history after reading) if any children have access to your device!
Growing up, I had a huge imagination — one that truly ran wild. Whether I was playing with my neighborhood friends on the fort my dad had built in our backyard, daydreaming while riding my scooter up and down our street, acting out dramatic scenarios with my cousins, or directing the perfect lives of my dolls, “make believe” was a key part of my everyday life. This wasn’t out of a need to escape — I had an absolutely magical childhood — but simply as a way to dream, immerse myself in what I imagined to be other people’s lived experiences, and explore various facets of myself. And while my parents wholeheartedly supported this childhood right-of-passage, adding to the whimsy with their animated personalities and colorful storytelling, my bold imagination gave them a run for their money. I was a chatty and energetic little girl whose curiosity knew no bounds.
Case in point: One day, when I was in elementary school, I noticed a book titled, “How to Talk to Animals” at our grocery store check-out line and begged my mom to get it for me. It was probably about three bucks — a steal! Could it be that this book would actually teach me how to talk to our puppy? I imagined all the verbal discussions we’d have, confident that I’d become a real-life Eliza Thornberry and Dr. DooLittle. An incredible gift had presented itself, and I, for one, was not foolish enough to let this kind of opportunity pass me by.
So, imagine my disappointment when I realized that, rather than teaching me the wizardry of spoken human-canine conversation, this book explained how to communicate with a pet via gestures and expressions. My heart sank. I had been duped! Silent talk?! The audacity to make up such an oxymoron! I felt wrongly taken advantage of by this late 90s version of clickbait…and then, I remembered that I’d be writing my Christmas list in just a few months. A lightbulb turned on in my brain:
Santa Claus.
That December, I wrote my annual letter to Santa (who, I have to admit, had been wonderful and generous to me every year) and wholeheartedly asked him to grant me one big wish: give our maltese puppy, Pooka, a voice. And not just any voice — no, no, no. I specifically asked him to give Pooka the voice of young Simba from The Lion King.
………………….. Who the hell did I think I was?
My mom would tell me, years later, that this had her and my dad both cracking up and stressing out. Obviously (to everyone but me, apparently) this was impossible. Even at 7 years old, I should have known that (I blame the animated holiday movie, “Anabelle’s Wish,” for sparking my belief that Santa could make this happen). Alas, I wrote my Christmas List. I dropped one copy off at a Santa’s Mailbox and left another on our living room table on Christmas Eve, along with the customary cookies, milk and reindeer food. That night, at our family’s annual Nochebuena party, my cousins and I eyed the sky, as we did every year, waiting to catch a glimpse of Santa’s sleigh (we swore we saw it; there’s really nothing more entertaining or beautiful than a child’s innocent imagination). Once we spotted what was surely Santa’s sleigh being led by the red light of Rudolph’s nose, we’d yell — because of course someone 30,000+ feet above ground could hear us — to greet Santa and announce some of the items on our wish list. I vividly remember this night. My announcement went something like this:
“HIIII SANTTAAAA! PLEASEGIVEMYPUPPYPOOKAAVOICESOICANTALKTOHIMANDPLEASEMAKEITSIMBASVOICEFROMTHELIONKINGBUTONLYHISVOICEFROMWHENHESLITTLE! PLEASETHANKYOUWELOVEYOUSANTA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
My poor parents. 😅
That Christmas morning, when I bolted out of bed and scurried to the living room, bursting with joy at the sight of my and my little sister’s presents, I was filled with hope. I eagerly yet nervously tiptoed toward our dog…
Me: “…Pooka?”
Pooka: *Yawns and cries in dog*
Sigh. Santa, though capable of flying around the world and delivering gifts to nearly every house in one night, did not seem to have the power to make my dog speak. I was momentarily crushed (and, shortly after, preoccupied by the gifts surrounding our Christmas tree). I woke up my parents and sister, and as the morning went on — despite my best efforts to evoke a verbal response from Pooka — we all confirmed the big wish had not come true. Santa explained to me, in his handwritten letter (shout-out to my right-handed dad’s left hand) that the communication between us and our pets was very special. We were meant to express our love and friendship in different ways — not speak it out loud. The letter worked. My mom played Christmas music and my dad recorded a home video as my sister and I opened our gifts, with our adorable puppy in tow, still the happiest two little girls on Christmas morning.
I wonder if, somewhere in the back of my mind, this awakened a little “AHA” moment in me. The year after, I expressed my doubt in the existence of the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny. My parents admitted the truth, but kept on that Santa was real. On my ninth Christmas, though I still celebrated with joy, something clicked. My unquestioning belief, once a bright beam of light, had suddenly begun to flicker.
Fast forward to early 2002. I was in fifth grade, just ten years old — a few months after 9/11 and that ninth Christmas. I was riding in the car with my mom when I looked over at her and asked, already anticipating the bittersweetness of it all, “Mom, Santa Claus isn’t real, is he?” She looked at me, her expression tinged with sadness, and asked something along the lines of, “Do you not feel like he’s real?” From there, we engaged in an honest, heartfelt and tearful talk, during which she confirmed my suspicions while reiterating to me that, while the version of Santa I believed in may have been made up, Saint Nicholas was an actual person — and the wonder and joy his story inspired was not only real, but even more special, as it was made possible by loving parents with no magical powers. She said she didn’t regret allowing us to believe in Santa, and that I shouldn’t, either. We were gifted a special experience that kids only get for such a sweet and fleeting amount of time. Plus, I could still enjoy the magic of Santa vicariously though my sister, who was four years younger and still very much believed (an important lesson for me about the joy that comes with giving joy to others). And then, right on cue, à la dramatics of an early 2000s music video, “Unwell” by Matchbox Twenty came on the radio. We rode in the car in silence, overcome with emotions that were only heightened by Rob Thomas’s smooth voice and the song’s melancholy lyrics (to this day, I can’t hear it without flashing back to that exact moment). I stared out the window, probably making believe that I was in some sappy y2k music video complete with rain and a blue-grey hue. Some innocence lost, but an imagination still very much alive.
I know every family approaches Santa in their own way, and I’m not here to judge. But I can tell you, as a kid who gleefully welcomed “jolly old Saint Nicholas” every Christmas, only to be inevitably faced with a somewhat disappointing truth, I couldn’t be happier or more grateful that my parents gave me those years of believing. I’m in my thirties now, and the magic of that time has given me far more than I could have imagined — a spark that reignites and warms my heart every Christmas, reconnecting me with that innocent, imaginative and playful little girl I always carry with me.
Happy Holidays, friends. Thank you for reading! ♥️
☕️ & 🎄,
Steph
This gives me happy nostalgia. 🤍🎄🥹