My dad only dressed as Santa a handful of times when I was a kid, something he stopped doing because my parents discovered that I was way too observant.
At five, Santa visited my ballet class, much to the delight of my fellow classmates. My parents picked me up an hour later and asked if anything interesting happened.
Me: “It was fun! Santa came to visit, but I knew it was Daddy, so that was even better.”
Shocked, my parents tried denying it.
Mom: “Why would you think it was Daddy?”
I rolled my eyes.
Me: “‘Santa’ was wearing Daddy’s wedding ring. Duh.”
Silence. My mom burst out laughing.
Dad: “Santa is married! How do you know that wasn’t from Mrs. Claus?!”
Me: “No, that was Daddy’s hand and his ring.”
I was confused about why they were confused. Wasn’t it so obvious? The three of us used to lay in bed every morning and just hold our hands up to see the difference in sizes, or I’d sit there for like an hour as they slept, tracing every nook and cranny of their hands and faces. I could pick out that ring anywhere, with its dull and scratched surface acting like its own unique design. They continued trying to deny it, but my mom still talks about it years later, amazed at how I knew.
When I was six years old, Dad did another visit, this time to my Girl Scouts Christmas party. Everyone was excited. Moms were taking pictures. We all told him what we wanted and what good deeds we did for the year.
Fast forward to our ride home. My dad asked how the party went, and I was confused.
Me: “You know how it went; you were there.”
Dad: *Quickly* “I was at work!”
Again, I explained that he came dressed as Santa, as if he had forgotten. My dad groaned.
Dad: “How?! Why do you think it was me?!”
Me: “I could see your uniform sticking out of your neck.”
Mom: “How the h*** did she see that?”
To be fair, this was back when military uniforms were bright green camo. It’s not really smart to wear that under bright red.
Dad: *Exasperated* “Yeah, well… Santa was in the military!! Santa needs a day job, too, you know!”
I just giggled. Santa also had Daddy’s eyes, but I decided not to mention it.
There was one more visit that same year. This time, we were all gathered at a neighbor’s house where I was hanging out with a trio of siblings — two older girls and a younger boy — and our parents were drinking at the dinner table. My dad disappeared, and Mom said he’d just gone to the bathroom (which, of course, takes like half an hour).
Santa arrived, this time with a sack full of presents.
Santa didn’t stay long, telling us he just wanted to drop off some “early” gifts, and left quickly after the initial excitement was over. He didn’t sit down and didn’t really let any of us near him for too long. He was not wearing a wedding ring. No familiar clothing was sticking out of his Santa clothes. He was there and he was gone.
We all tore into the presents in seconds only to discover that they were all filled with strips of tissue paper.
The adults all erupted into snickers and laughter. I didn’t notice that my friends were upset; in fact, I was excited. Of course, these weren’t real gifts; it wasn’t even Christmas! In fact, I was having a grand time throwing the tissue into the air and “making it snow”.
Eventually, my friends started to see the fun in this and joined me. The girl closest to my age, around eight, went on a conspiracy rant about how it HAD to have been my dad because “Santa would never do something so mean.” I didn’t really understand what she meant, but I did agree that it was my dad. She thought I was crazy for not being upset.
My dad sneaked in a little later, and I went and jumped on his lap. He asked me what he’d missed, surprised he hadn’t walked into a living room filled with crying kids, and my mom just shook her head.
Mom: “Just your daughter being your daughter.”
My dad immediately understood.
Dad: *Sighing* “This is why time-outs didn’t work on you. You’d start counting in the corner and forget you were in trouble.”
I looked at my mom, grinning widely as if I, too, were in on this elaborate prank.
Me: “Santa was wearing Daddy’s work boots.”
Oh, silly adults. Didn’t they know I used to spend hours playing in their bedroom, hiding in their closet, and getting into my dad’s shoes to play with the shoe polish and make bracelets out of those little green ropes he put around his ankles?
Quickly, everybody brushed me off and tried to change the subject.
My mom later asked me how the h*** I knew those were my dad’s shoes.
Me: *Shrugging* “They’re just daddy’s shoes.”
After all, he wore them every day. Nothing Mom said or tried to explain away would change my mind.
Suffice it to say, my dad gave up Santa after that!
