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Late one snowy Christmas Eve in Germany, when our three children were snuggled in their beds, my husband, Francis, and I were in our Patch Barracks apartment, yawning and putting the finishing touches on what would be another magical Christmas morning.
“This one’s for Hayden from Santa,” I said after wrapping a large Lego set. “Put it over there,” I pointed behind the Christmas tree. With a Sharpie, I scrawled on another name tag, while Francis took a chug from the glass of milk the kids left out for Santa.
“What about these carrots?” Francis asked, grimacing. He was perfectly willing to partake in the cookies and milk left for Santa each year, but he avoided vegetables unless they were drowned in ranch dressing or smothered in melted cheese. Francis thought nibbling on reindeer carrots was asking way too much.
I laughed and nibbled the carrots myself.
“We almost forgot the hoof prints and glitter!” I whisper-yelled. Our old house in Virginia had a fireplace for Santa’s entry, but our top floor stairwell apartment on Patch Barracks had none. In case we were interrogated about how Santa got all those gifts inside, we opened the slanted roof window in our family room, and using a wooden spoon, scooped reindeer tracks out of the snow and sprinkled silvery glitter on the roof. With a trail of glitter left between the window and the tree, staging was complete.
“Looks good,” Francis said, and we smiled, proud that we’d pulled off another enchanting Christmas scene while our children were fast asleep.
Or, so we thought.
Unbeknownst to us, our fifth-grader Anna had woken up when she heard a noise. Thinking it was Santa making a ruckus, she’d climbed down from her bunk and peeked through the keyhole in the bedroom door, expecting to see the jolly old elf himself.
What Anna witnessed would squash her sugar plum visions forever. There was no man in a red suit. It was only Dad, setting gifts under our tree.
Her mind raced with the implications of this bombshell. She’d heard rumors about Santa Claus being made up by parents, but she hadn’t believed it. For the first time, she wondered, had it always been Dad taking bites out of the cookies we left for Santa? Was Santa’s curlycue script on the gifts really Mom’s handwriting all along?
Seeking comfort, Anna climbed into the bottom bunk with her younger sister, who was fast asleep. “Lilly,” she whispered.
Squinting, Lilly croaked, “Whah, huh?”
“We’re going to sing Christmas carols now,” Anna demanded.
Throughout their sisterhood, Anna had always been the unequivocal boss. Lilly’s birth had ushered in Anna’s reign as social director, peer mentor, master manipulator, camp counselor, benevolent queen or evil dictator, depending upon her mood. Her sovereignty had only one loyal subject — her little sister — but that was enough, at least for now, to satisfy Anna’s desire for world domination.
Lilly, having always been a content child, accepted this lot in life without question or complaint. After being woken up from a dead sleep and told to sing, she looked groggily up at her big sister, and said quite simply, “OK.”
Anna snaked her arms around Lilly’s little torso, hugging her tightly for her own solace, and began in a whisper, “Silent night, holy night ...” Lilly didn’t know the words, but she followed Anna’s lead, as usual. With their heads resting forehead to forehead on Lilly’s pillow, they sang the song over and over in the dark until Anna fell into a fitful sleep.
The next morning, Merry Christmas chaos ensued. Anna never revealed the traumatic realization that had been foisted upon her the night before. In fact, Anna hid her secret so well, her older brother still believed in Santa for at least another year. It wouldn’t be until Anna and Lilly were in college that they divulged the story. Francis and I were surprised by the tale of that fateful night, and heartened to learn that Anna had selflessly preserved Christmas magic for her siblings.
However, just as we were about to praise Anna for her generous sacrifice, we learned the shocking sequel. Tune in next week for the rest of the story ...
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
