A special present for Daddy

By John M. Angelini

Christmas has always been special to me. The reason has little to do with bright-colored gift wraps, tinsel and glitter. Rather, the holiday evokes memories of starry-eyed children with innocent faces wondering if Santa was only make-believe. I, too, wondered how and when this red-cheeked bearded figure stopped being real to kids.

One holiday season more than 40 years ago, I decided to play Santa Claus to my three children, Maria, Jay and David, all still young enough to believe in the jolly old chimney sweep. Buying all the necessary regalia increased my excitement. The store clerk showed me a variety of Santa costumes. When I made my selection he said, "Try it on, sir."

"No thanks," I replied, wanting my Santa look to be personal and private.

When the time came I dressed piece by piece in my dinette, hidden from the children's view. My midsection seemed adequately suited to the role. My very being had changed. I looked in the closet door mirror and knew I was Santa in a sudden and total transformation.

Eager to share this new role with my children I walked down the hallway, past the built-in wall cabinets, to their bedrooms. They greeted me with sparkling eyes, wide grins and cries of surprise. Their little bodies trembled in anticipation as we chatted and discussed their wishes. Perhaps the best Christmas gift a father could receive was the look of happiness on their faces.

The following Christmas was different. As usual, my children went to sleep, supposedly, but the thought of Santa's visit was an unbearably long wait for them. Their whispered conversation was barely audible. I dressed in the dinette as usual. I cocked my hat, adjusted my snow-white beard and walked quietly to their bedroom. As I crossed the threshold of the doorway, my oldest child, Maria, looked up at me and said, "Hi, Daddy!"

My step became hesitant, as if I were in slow motion. I stopped, stunned. I stood speechless. I instinctively checked to feel whether my beard was askew. It was a strange moment for me, perhaps the end of a gratifying ritual.

"How did you know, Maria?"

She didn't answer. Instead she grabbed my hand and sat me in her place on the bed. She took several steps toward the doorway, looked back at my bewildered face and smiled a smile as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's. The two boys sat quietly and waited while Maria walked down the hallway to the dinette and out of sight.

"Daddy," she called in a muffled voice.

"Yes?"

"Look into the sliding glass doors of the hall cabinets."

What I saw was a perfectly clear reflection of Maria standing in the exact spot where for several years I had donned my Santa suit.

"Oh my," I said. Maria rushed back into the bedroom and sat beside me, quickly joined by my two sons.

They surrounded me, all arms and legs, hands pressed against my body to make sure it was really me. There was little I could do except to welcome their attention.

"When and how did you know, children?"

Maria said she grew suspicious because I always failed to appear when Santa visited. It was the previous Christmas and purely by accident that the discovery was made. Bobby, Mark, Billy and all the neighborhood kids also knew and promised to keep it a secret.

"Why?" I asked.

"We didn't want to spoil your fun, Daddy."

That was their special gift to me.

We all looked at each other wondering what to say next when Maria started to giggle. The boys and I joined in, and when the laughter subsided I sensed that the following Christmas I would put on my Santa suit, look in the mirror and walk past the sliding glass doors.

And for a brief moment I remembered my own childhood, 70 years ago now, when, on a cold windy day, I brought home a fully decorated Christmas tree I had won at school. It was the first time I felt like Santa Claus.