Peeking under the tree

                The jig is almost up. Our 5-year-old granddaughter discovered some unwrapped toys in her parents' closet, gifts a jolly ole elf was going to leave on Christmas morning.

                Young Kylie inherited her reporter genes from both her mom's side of the family and her dad's side, and those "seek-and-find" antennae were on full alert when she just "happened" to stumble on the gifts hidden in the back of the closet.

                I can't say I'm surprised. When I was a young girl, snooping and looking for Christmas gifts was my prime mission. The best source of information were conversations my mom and aunts had when they thought we weren't listening.

                One year I overheard the words "Barbie Dream House" and hoped they were helping out Santa Claus because that dream house was at the top of my list. On Christmas morning, a fully assembled cardboard Barbie Dream House, complete with a Barbie and a Ken, was waiting for me.

                After that, I figured my moms and aunts had a secret line to the North Pole because we always seemed to get exactly what we wanted for Christmas. That charade went on for years but I gradually unraveled the myth of Santa Claus.

                When I was in the fourth grade, I opened a closet in our laundry room, and I saw a white helicopter on one of the top shelves. I didn't think much about the toy, figuring I'd find it wrapped up underneath the tree for my brother.

                But when I woke up on Christmas morning and saw the helicopter with a tag on it that said "From Santa," I knew right then and there that my friends were right – Santa really was my mom and dad.

                Contrary to what psychologists say, I wasn't traumatized by this realization. Instead, I was miffed at myself for not figuring it out sooner. After that, the only true mystery was figuring out what was in the wrapped boxes my mom put under the tree in the days before Christmas.  

                I shook, rattled and probed every box under the tree almost the minute she put them under there. I was a master spy at slowly but accurately removing Scotch tape from gifts and peering underneath the wrapping paper to see what was inside.

                And, just as stealthily, I'd re-tape the paper and act extremely surprised when we opened the gifts. Every once in a while, I'd tell myself I shouldn't sneak a peek so I'd genuinely be surprised.

                Just as quickly, I'd talk myself out of that rationalization and go to work removing the tape from the rest of the gifts. My mom didn't figure out I was a major snoop until years later when I caught her doing the exact same thing to a mystery gift my dad had left under the tree for her.

                 The true generosity of Santa Claus wasn't clear to me until I had children of my own. At night, as I'd tuck my boys into bed, they'd ask if Santa would really get them what they wanted. And on Christmas morning, when they saw that special gift with their name on it, the man at the North Pole got all the recognition, not mom and dad.

                Somehow, though, I didn't want the credit for those gifts. Seeing the light in my sons' eyes as they thought about how good they'd been that year and that someone with a hearty laugh and twinkling eyes was rewarding them was the best Christmas gift of all.

                This year, what my daughter-in-law and I will do is switch out toys as my granddaughter hasn't yet discovered where I'm hiding her Christmas gifts. Hopefully, the secret identity of the jolly man in the red velvet suit will stay secret.

                At least for one more year.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.