Something told me that I should go along with the story.
I wasn’t sure why they had made up this half-baked tale but they were clearly committed to it. I mean, from as early as I can remember I couldn’t see why Santa would try to park on the roof and shimmy down our chimney to get into the house. After all, the chimney was dirty and narrow and we had several good doors on the house that he could use if he wanted to.
I was pretty sure that my older sisters were in cahoots with Mom and Dad on this one. Everybody was in on the game so I went along with it.
But the winter that I was 4 the story started to unravel. We had planned to leave before dawn on Christmas morning to drive to my Grandmothers house, so Santa was going to have to come early. Special arrangements had been made for early delivery and on the eve of Christmas after supper we were sent up to our bedrooms to pretend to sleep so that Santa could come.
Pressing my ear up to my closed bedroom door I heard shuffling in the living room downstairs and then a hearty Ho, Ho, Ho. It was Dad. I was sure. And to confirm it was a giggle from my Mom.
A few minutes later we emerged to find the cookies and milk in disarray, and a fresh set of gifts presented around the tree. We opened our packages that night and though I knew better, I kept the faith along with Mom, Dad, and my sisters.
As far as I know, they still think I believe.
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