santa claus

The earliest memory I have of Santa Claus dates back to when I was four.  I don't remember what my present was, but I remember the card he gave me and what I said about it to my mother: "Mommy, Santa's handwriting looks just like yours!"  If I remember correctly, I was pretty persistent about it.  We lived in New Zealand at that time, and I had already created an image that Caucasians spoke in English so I was also slightly surprised that Santa wrote in Japanese.

The first present from Sanata Claus that I remember came a year or two later.  It was a large box, and I was disappointed because it didn't look at all like what I had asked for -- a stuffed hedgehog.  When I opened the present, it was a computer software used to make original stickers.  I asked my parents if they had really sent my letter to Santa.  It goes without saying though, that I had more fun making my own stickers than I ever did with a stuffed animal.

A year went by, and I did get a stuffed animal.  Except that it wasn't just a stuffed animal -- it was a backpack in the form of Chu-Totoro (a character from Our Neighbor Totoro).  It was something I had designed in my mind, and I never knew it was actually on the market.  I was convinced more than ever that Santa really existed.

The next year, however, I noticed that my Polly Pocket had been wrapped up in a toy store wrapper.  I wondered if Santa had been too busy.  Maybe he didn't have enough time to make my present at his own factory?

Another year passed and we were now living in France.  I asked Santa for a Tamagocchi made in Japan -- he wasn't allowed to just drop by at a local toy store.  But Santa already had another challenge to face that year: we spent the Christmas away from home in Italy.  Before leaving, I checked there was nothing under the Christmas tree and wondered if he was coming to our hotel.  When we came back from our vacation, I found my Tamagocchi under the tree.  Only that it was obviously from a local toy store.  And I realized this year's Santa had a handwriting that looked just like my father's.

The next year, Santa didn't come.  Because I had a great debate with a friend on whether Santa existed, and I gave in.  It was on our way back home from school.  When my mother picked me up, I asked her if she and dad had been Santa.  My mother first laughed, asked why I thought so, and admitted the truth rather easily.  Tears rolled down my face.  It was just a couple days before Christmas.

When I had calmed down though, I remembered how my mother had become so mad at me when I went searching around the house for signs of Santa few days before -- I had ended up finding a snowman paperbag under her bed.  I recalled about the year before, when my father went back to the living room near the Christmas tree to "turn off the lights" just before we left.  I remembered all the Christmas cards I got over the years.  The presents.

And now, I still remember about when we were in NZ, how my parents encouraged me to prepare some bread and warm milk for Santa and his reindeers in case they were hungry.  On Christmas, I woke up to find the plate and mug empty, and observed the remaining crumbs in fascination.  The trace of the magical existence gave me a special excitement that nothing else ever could.  The world in front of me was full of wonder, and Santa Claus was real.