I’ve always been a person, who since my childhood
lived half my life in an imaginary world. Believing in Santa Claus was one of
those myths, and one that I regret ever having to give up on.
Christmas was always a special time in our house. My
Mom and Dad played along with the Santa myth to the fullest, and besides the
real Christmas celebration of Jesus’ birth, there was plenty of fun, pageants,
caroling, sleigh-rides, visits to see the Christmas lights, and best of all,
the yearly visit to see dear old Santa Claus.
When I was married and had my own children, I always
tried to make Christmas the same kind of magical, exciting time my parents had
made it for me. We decorated the tree, had parties, went to visit Santa in the
stores, and took part in all the Christmas festivities in our community. Christmas
was always a special, fun time for my children, just as it had been for me.
Then one year, the year my son, Stevie, had turned sic
and my daughter, Andrea, was about to turn two, the Christmas fantasy got spoiled.
That was the year Mattel put out a new kind of doll—one that talked. Her name
was Chatty Cathy, a blonde little cherub with a saucy face. When you pulled the
ring in her back, she spouted various lines of dialogue such as “Hello, I’m
Chatty Cathy. What’s your name?” I
couldn’t resist buying one for my little daughter.
One Christmas Eve, after the children had been
tucked into bed and I had waited to make sure they were asleep, my husband and
I started to put out the toys from Santa under the tree. This ritual also
involved eating the cookies and Christmas cake the children had left on a
decorated plate, and drinking the beer that would help refresh Santa on his
journey. After this, we took the carefully hidden packages out of the closet and
began to set them up: the usual GI-Joe toys and cowboy regalia for Stevie, the
little girl trinkets for Andrea. And Chatty Cathy. I couldn’t resist pulling
the ring to her the doll talk. She was so cute| I knew my daughter would be
thrilled with her. Chatty Cathy and I chatted for awhile, then I put her in her
special place under the Christmas tree.
The next morning, after all the excitement of
finding what Santa had left under the tree, opening presents and trying things
out was over, I noticed that my son was unusually quiet. I wondered if he was
disappointed with his gifts. No, it wasn’t that. Very quietly, so as not to
spoil things for his little sister, Stevie said to me: “I know that Santa didn’t
really bring Chatty Cathy, Mom. Because I heard you talking while you were
playing with her.”
I felt so bad! Chatty Cathy had given away the
secret of Santa Claus and spoiled the Christmas surprise for my son. After
that, Christmas wasn’t quite the same for Stevie, although we always tried to
make it just as much fun. Stevie was a good sport and went along the Santa
Claus myth for his little sister’s sake.
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