aAs a child, I was an amateur detective. A master debater and a skeptical observer. The adult world seemed to be defined by determined and capable people making important decisions, and I aspired to be one of them. In short, he matured early. And I feel sorry for everyone I played against. Especially Uncle Dan.
Christmas 1989 was a very exciting day for 4-year-old me. I visited Santa at the mall a few weeks ago and asked for a magic tea set and world peace (get it? I can't stand it). The Christmas Eve celebration at my grandparents' house was a great success. As a firstborn, I benefited from generous uncles and aunts who helped me lose weight with potatoes and sausages.
At that moment, I heard the sound of sleigh bells. My mother stopped tucking me into bed and looked surprised. I got confused: surelyI wouldn't have made such a rookie mistake that Santa would show up. in front I fell asleep. There must be some mistake.
“Annie!” my father yelled from the living room. “Ani, come quickly!”
There was no delay. I jumped out of bed and my mom followed me, smiling. I ran down the hallway to the front door. That's when I saw him. Santa. It's right there. standing in front of me. Ho-ho-hooing like you've never heard before.
Shocked, I walked up to him, thrilled that my humble request for a peaceful world had come to him. I looked at my parents, my grandmother, and my friends who were passing by looking for a little Christmas cheer. They were witnessing a miracle.
Santa sat in an armchair and I jumped up onto his lap. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” I took in everything, his white beard, his laugh, the ease with which he treated me. The suit was velvet and the belt was shiny. He wore white gloves and his long hair was perfectly curled. Then I looked down.
Santa was wearing sneakers. Familiar sneakers. I recognized the sneakers as Uncle Dan's. Every Christmas, Uncle Dan would dress up as Santa at holiday parties and grow a beard to match his trademark white mustache. This Santa also had light blue eyes and footprints at the corners of his eyes, and unlike the Santa at the shopping mall, he smelled of Old Spice.
That's when I realized that this warm, wonderful, and cheerful Santa was my favorite uncle. He dressed me up to make my holidays a little more special and to make my mom and dad happy to see their only child enjoying the magic of Christmas. I knew it would be kind not to admit anything like this, but I was a detective and was delighted with my discovery.
“You’re not Santa!” I exclaimed excitedly, pointing at his running shoes. “It’s Uncle Dan!”
The room fell silent. The fear was palpable as my family tried to determine whether my reaction meant the joy of discovery or the formation of childhood trauma. I looked at everyone, laughing maniacally, because I had clearly proven my powers of deduction and my ability to deduce the truth.
“Uncle Dan!” I repeated before hugging him.
The room exhaled in unison. I jumped down, laughed along with them, and went back to bed excited about the experience. My uncle not only did a kind thing, he risked running into them. genuine Santa came near bedtime. Can you even imagine? I thought to myself. Two Santas? can't believe it. You couldn't fool me.
That is, until next year. I was summoned back to the living room just before bedtime, just in time to see Santa make a mad dash from the Christmas tree to the patio door. he was wearing boots. It had to be him. I couldn’t wait to tell my uncle Dan.
