I don't remember when I realized Santa wasn't real. I was there when my brother found out and it crushed him. He sobbed after finding presents in my mother's room. That damned house was so small that we couldn't help but go in her room. I have nightmares about how small it was. Anyway... I eventually calmed him down by pointing out that the tags did NOT say that they were from Santa. They were blank.
To this day, my mother does not write Santa. She leaves them blank.
When I think of Santa and those uber early Christmas mornings when my mother would be sacked out on the couch in her work clothes, I get sad. I wonder if I was dismayed, like my brother, when I found out. Probably not. I was probably guilty. She worked so hard and rarely could hire a sitter. We were alone. She liked to call us monsters, but really we were 5 and 8 and 9 and alone. Yes, the house was a mess. How was I, at 9yo, supposed to be a super-mom? I was busy being a kid dealing already with depression and binge eating and being teased and bullied at school for smelling like cat piss and having fleas. None of my clothes fit and my hair was a rat's nest. We didn't have conditioner. Impossible.
And yet I feel guilty that I didn't do more for her. I only remember 2 gifts that we ever got from Santa. One being a Teddy Ruxpin that we had to share. She even wrote a note from Santa saying that Teddy was so special he could only give one to each family. How that must have hurt her. I remember the year I got my Nintendo. That was great. I was supposed to still believe in Santa, but I remember hugging my mom in the hallway and telling her to let Santa know I was SOOOO happy.
Very few good things happened in that house, but playing Nintendo and watching Star Trek are some good memories.
