Blue Christmas

I don’t know if my mom loved to or felt like she had to create this sense of magic for me at Christmas time. She wasn’t like some parents now who refuse to allow their children to believe in Santa. My mom let me write letters to him, asked me what I wanted so she could tell him, and insisted that on Christmas Eve, Santa come to visit. The only difference is that I was allowed to interact with Santa.

Somewhere, sometime, someone had acquired a Santa suit, and I think it was Filly, my middle brother, who would always wear it. I don’t know if the suit had come with or without the beard, but it ended up missing the Christmas when I was five. So they ended up making do with a remnant piece of blue faux fur that had been used in the doll house my mom and brothers had made me for me.

I don’t know if it was the beard or that Santa was so tall and lanky and had eyes just like my brother, but that was the Christmas I knew, for sure, that there really was no Santa. Still, I pretended to believe because it was tradition. Being that at five, I already had a niece, I knew I couldn’t ruin this for her.

During my dark years*, I would dress up as Santa and go around delivering gifts for my nephews and my brother’s friends’ children. It was so much fun to see the look on their faces when they saw me. It made the itching below the beard and hat worth it.

So if it was out of obligation, love, or just tradition, my mom’s work churned out so much more than happy memories. If I were to ever have kids of my own, I wouldn’t hesitate to do the same con blue beard y todo.

Feliz navidad!

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