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For me, it was the handwriting.
Kids figure it out lots of different ways, but for me, it was the handwriting. You know that note that Santa leaves, the one you find when you run downstairs on Christmas morning, screaming HE WAS HERE HE WAS HERE OH MY GOD SANTA WAS HERE!!!, the one that says "Thanks for the milk and cookies and Merry Christmas?"
Well, unless Santa Claus attended The South Philadelphia High School for Girls to learn his beautiful penmanship, that note was written by one person and one person only.
My mom.
I know I must have called her out on it a time or two, and she probably had some glib answer... maybe the first time it was "Oh no dear, Santa definitely wrote that note." Maybe the next year, "Well, Santa's really busy and he asked me to write the note for him." Stuff like that. Stuff a three or four or five year old kid would buy, because he wanted to.
Because Santa's real. He has to be, right?
Eventually I grew out of Santa Claus and we were all set to go about our merry way. I'm Santa, you're Santa, ha ha ha, Merry Christmas. But then my parents went and had another kid. I don't think anyone was really expecting that, but oops. Suddenly there was someone else in the house who one day would be looking forward to Santa's visit. And one day would also start asking questions.
So the first year my little sister was was old enough to get it, maybe three years old, I said to my mom, "Hey, let me write the note this year." I'm eleven, and this would be fun, a real goof. So I got my pen and some paper, and I wrote the note. It was a little more elaborate than "Thanks for the milk and cookies," and included some personal details about our family that would absolutely prove that Santa had been monitoring our naughty vs. nice quotient all year.
But most of all, the handwriting looked nothing like the cursive of anyone in our home. I created a Santa script, a tightly cribbed and shaky style full of crazy ascenders and descenders and curliques, the handwriting of a man hundreds of years old. It actually hurt my hand to write it.
But it worked. And while the other kids were asking their parents, "Well how does he get down the chimney when we don't even have a fireplace," and the other common Kringle busters, my little sis was calm and assured that there was in fact a Santa. He was watching, and he left a note.
I don't remember when I stopped writing the notes, but years later, when I had a kid of my own and she was two or three, I knew it was time to start again. But now as a somewhat better art director I really started to go all out. I'd find some nice paper and age it up. Crumple it, flatten it out, burn the edges to give it that pirate treasure map look. I've even soaked it in coffe and baked it in the oven.
I don't know why I feel that Santa's paper has to be really old. Shit, he can bring you a new spiral notebook; there must be some new paper at the North Pole. But nonetheless, I really feel that this document has to look as old as the fucking Declaration of Independence. So every year at 3AM, when the presents are finally wrapped and my wife's gone up to bed, like the ultimate document forger I set to work. It's something that I really enjoy, the process and the ritual and getting it just right. Over time the thoughts and themes in the text have become deeper, and much more personal to me. And although I no longer labor over the Santa script quite as much as I used to, there's a lot more of my heart in there than "Rudolph enjoyed the carrots, Merry Xmas."
This past Christmas, my older daughter finally decided that there is no Santa Claus. We knew this was coming. She's almost eleven. There'd been lot of questions the past couple of years and you know, kids talk. And I guess when kids finally make this decision, they want everyone to know that they know. So she started talking some smack around our younger daughter, who's only four. At four years old she's still so innocent and wide eyed and believing, I couldn't let anyone take Santa away from her. Not now. Not so soon.
So I talked to my oldest, and she's cool. She's got an artistic bent, so I told her about the note, about how I started writing it, the paper, what kind of pen I used. I gave up some of my secrets.
Some, but not all.
Because I'm passing the mantle to her. And it's something we'll do together. And one day, maybe this year, maybe next, she'll write the note for her little sister. And one day she'll write the note for her kids, and her little sister will do the same.
Because as long as there's always a note, there will always be a Santa.
Right?
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