“Oh NO!” I would shout on Christmas morning when my kids were small. “Would you look at THAT? He’s done it again!”
And my kids would scramble down the stairs to see the long line of bootprints from our front door to the kitchen table to the Christmas tree and back out the door, a muddy ring of evidence that magic exists.
Yes, we had a chimney, but our family worried it was a little too thin for the Jolly Old Gent. I told the kids that their dad and I had known Santa for at least 30 years, so we trusted him with a house key, which I mailed to him at the North Pole on Dec. 23. On Dec. 26, he returned it to us by certified mail, so it wouldn’t get lost in the wash when Mrs. Claus tossed the suit in the washing machine. Santa wasn’t the only one sprinkling holiday magic for my kids back then — the U.S. Postal Service in my tale obviously had superhuman turnaround powers.
The boot tracks led to the table because that’s where we laid out Santa’s snack, usually Christmas cookies and milk, but one year, a taco from the traditional Christmas Eve tacos and beer: “Maybe he needs protein,” my daughter, then age 5, suggested.
The note exchange
One year, we put out a mat for Santa to wipe his feet. I grumbled to my kids about having to mop the floors on Christmas and they came up with this brilliant idea. We left a note:
Dear Santa,
Mommy was hoping she wouldn’t have to sweep tomorrow, so we got you this nice mat.
Love, M and A
When we came down, there were little muddy deer tracks across the floors. Santa left a note on the table with the half-eaten cookies:
Dear Mom,
I am so sorry about the tracks. Rudolph wanted to taste the cookies, and I couldn’t get him to wipe his feet.
Love, Santa
A twist on my own childhood memories
I don’t recall how we came up with the bootprints idea. But I do recall my own childhood memory of leaving a snack for Santa, and his accidentally leaving items around our house: a big black belt, a glove, cookies from Mrs. Claus. I bought the Santa tale hook, line, and sinker.
On Christmas Eve the year I was 11, my older sister and I went out caroling. My parents forgot we were out, pulled out the gifts and began wrapping. When we were dropped off back home at 10 p.m., we caught them red-handed, buried in a sea of paper and ribbons.
I burst into tears and ran to my bed. “You have to have known it wasn’t real,” my sister said, laughing until she cried.
“I didn’t,” I sobbed.
I got over it by the next morning and at breakfast my mother swore me to secrecy, which I honored: I never told my little brothers what I knew.
Yes, technically it’s lying, but …
Why do we lie to our kids about a rotund, generous old man tracking mud throughout our home while leaving gifts under the tree?
For us, sharing the Santa story was less a lie than an invitation to the mystery of gift-giving, the magic of make-believe, and a caring community where someone unrelated to you would want you to experience joy. For the years we believed in him — our kids and ourselves when we were kids — Santa was goodness and kindness and generosity personified, and offered a very real invitation to “follow in his footprints.” Muddy boots and all.
