Belief

Jonathan wants to believe in Santa, but now that he goes to a large public school, it becomes more difficult. Yesterday he asked again if Santa were real? I turned the question back to him. Why did he ask? Because the other children sang a song about finding Santa is a fake.

The other children. They were the ones who told him about the Tooth Fairy too. And now, with his fourth tooth wiggling freely in his gums, he tells the gushing grown ups that he can no longer be deceived in that respect.

Fine. I don't feel strongly about the Tooth Fairy. I do, however, enjoy the magic of Santa.

We read The Polar Express, and at the end when the little boy hears the bell ring, when it is silent for all others, Jonathan looked at me earnestly and said that he would believe. No matter what. Because he wanted to hear the bell.

I'm guessing, however, that this will be Santa's last year.

And that last sentence makes me feel sad. The boy is only five. Even if I keep thinking he is six.

When I was seven, I was in the same position as my little boy. Aaron M told us in primary that there was no Santa. His father had told him so. I refused to believe him. There had to be a Santa. He was my only hope.

You see, the year I was seven was the year of the Cabbage Patch Kids. I wanted one. I hadn't really wanted a doll or toy like I wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid. They were all unique, with different clothes and hair. They came with a name and a birthday and adoption papers to mail in. The Cabbage Patch company would mail you a birthday card on your doll's birthday.

That year, we heard of Cabbage Patch thefts and Cabbage Patch violence, as parents across the United States did whatever they could to find their child one of these popular dolls. I wanted one, too, but at least I didn't have to rely on my parents. Santa would be there for me.


Indeed, early Christmas morning, next to my stocking was a pink clad Cabbage Patch doll. Her name was Rachel. She had brown hair in pig tails and dimples. She was perfect, and her birthday was in September, just like mine. All the pictures of that morning include me with my doll hugged tight against my side. I remember the first day back at school, Mrs. Hansen let us each bring one special new toy. There were gasps and whispers when the other girls saw that I had a coveted Cabbage Patch Kid.

I was so lucky, and so proud. That doll stayed by my side until I finally grew out of dolls. I loved her and her big plastic head so much. She was perfect.

My parents couldn't have found a toy so perfect. My parents couldn't have afforded a toy so popular, as I was one of the oldest of six small children at the time. No, my perfect doll Rachel was proof of the existence of Santa.

But even for me, that was my last year.