I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was 10 years
old. I was probably the last kid in my 4th
grade class to do so. My fellow
classmates had long since given up on the notion that one lone fat guy in a red
suit could successfully travel ‘round the world carrying a sack laden with
presents for all the “good” boys and girls in one night. I was different. Perhaps
I was a bit more naive, a bit more gullible—or maybe a bit of both. But, as I look back now, I think maybe the
real reason I was so reluctant to let go of the fantasy known as Santa Claus was
because I really did believe in magic. I
believed that one man could visit every house in the world in a sleigh pulled
by flying reindeer; I believed that toys were made by elves at the North Pole;
I believed that Rudolph’s bright red nose led Kris Kringle through the night
and to my very own front door. I
believed it all—as deeply and strongly as I believed that the half-eaten plate
of cookies and empty glass of milk left for me to find was evidence of the
truth about Santa Claus. And it was fun!
The night I heard my parents pulling my brother’s and my
Christmas presents out of the attic and then whispering frantically as they
tried to quietly carry them down the stairs changed all that. That Christmas morning was the worst one I
can remember. I don’t recall one gift
that was under the tree that year. It
didn’t much matter; after all, it wasn’t the gifts themselves that were important,
although they were the impetus for everything else. For me, the most important part of Christmas
was the anticipation. The getting up
early in the morning—long before my parents’ eyes had left their pillows—to
sneak a peek at the cornucopia of avarice which awaited under the tree, the sitting
in the kitchen with my Grandma—unable to eat—until I heard the footsteps of my
Mom and Dad at the top of the stairs, and finally the studying of each present,
right before its contents were unveiled, intoxicated by its wrapping and bow
and the strange signature on the card. THAT was the best part of Christmas;
that was the part that was gone forever.
Or so I thought.
About 19 years later I had a daughter of my own. Things change when you’re a parent. But I
had promised myself that night, lying in bed, so many years ago, feeling
betrayed and disappointed and angry, that I would never do to my own child what
my parents had done to me. I would be
honest with her about Christmas. I swore
I would never make her believe in fantasies only to have them crushed; I would
never tell her stories about people and places which do not exist; and I would
never lie to her about where all the gifts came from that she was lucky enough
to have waiting for her under the tree. I
swore that she would know the truth about Santa Claus. By the time she turned two—old enough to
really “believe” in Santa—my second daughter was born. It was now time to honor that promise.
Just like every other middle-aged, middle-income mom, I took
my kids to get pictures taken with department store Santas. My daughters grew up watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Miracle on 34th Street, and Frosty the Snowman, and, like all young
inquisitive kids, they asked me questions about what they saw and heard. And I wanted to tell them the truth. I wanted not to break the promise I’d made to
that ten year old child those many years ago on that fateful Christmas night. Then I looked into my daughters’ eyes. And what I saw there, changed my mind. I saw a child that believed an old man in a bright red
velvet suit could make her Christmas dreams come true; a child that looked up into
the sky on Christmas eve night and swore that the blinking red light she saw there
was the reflection of Rudolph’s nose; a child that thought the footprints outside
our house on Christmas morning were left by Santa’s boots. I saw
a child that believed in magic. I saw myself. And I just couldn’t do it. I broke my promise.
I made a similar promise when I first became a teacher. I promised myself that I would be "that teacher"-- the teacher who would make a difference. I believed I could change the lives of every one of my students; every bit as much as I believed in the Santa Claus of my youth. My class would be the one students ran down the hall to get to; my class would be the place where learning was fun; my class would be the place where nostagia was born and dreams came to life. I made that promise as a fledgling teacher long before the harshness and realities of this profession were known to me. Then that first day of school finally came when I stood in front of my own students in my own classroom with my own future right in front of me...and I broke that promise, too.
My class wasn't the place students were running to get to; they were just running period...all over me! I couldn't even get them to sit down. I couldn't make learning fun because I couldn't make learning happen at all. And the only thing I was nostalgic for back then was the weekend. I counted down the days, hours, and minutes each and every week until it arrived. As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, I swore to myself that if I couldn't have that "perfect" classroom (the one I had imagined inside my head those many years ago when all I ever thought about was being a teacher) I would give up on my promise and find a new profession. That first semester was the hardest. I remember crying alone in my bathtub every Friday night, praying to God he'd give me the strength to go back into work on Monday. Somehow, each Monday morning, I'd find it.
Around Christmas time that year, one of my students gave me a Christmas card. It wasn't anything fancy; in fact, if I remember right, she made it herself. But I can still see the front cover as clearly today as I did when I first held it in my hand. It was the color of custard cream, like the inside of donut, and adorned with cut-out pictures from coloring books that the child had obviously cut herself and then glued onto the paper. Red and green crayon marks scurried across the page. I smiled when I opened it, amused by its honesty and simplicity. Inside was a simple message: "Mrs. Skweres, thank you for being my teacher. You help me when I need it."
I thought to myself as I read it that this sentiment was a far cry from the impact I had hoped to make as a new teacher. It was small in scale; a minute success hidden amongst a plethora of failures. But isn't that how it comes to us in the world of education? Successes rarely hit us like a ton of bricks, but more often than not, brush our faces like feathers blowing on the breeze. It's our job to recognize them when they're there. Otherwise, they just blow by...unnoticed.
I'm learning now, 15 years later, to take pride in the small things. Those, after all, are the things that truly matter. Truth is, the "ideal" teacher that I had in my head was no more real than Santa Claus. They were an illusion. As a child, I believed in them both. I'm not sorry, though. Because it is that belief that has kept me going all these years; my belief that I may still keep my promise to myself and become the teacher I once dreamed I'd be. Until then, I keep that Christmas card handy--to help remind me.
I made a similar promise when I first became a teacher. I promised myself that I would be "that teacher"-- the teacher who would make a difference. I believed I could change the lives of every one of my students; every bit as much as I believed in the Santa Claus of my youth. My class would be the one students ran down the hall to get to; my class would be the place where learning was fun; my class would be the place where nostagia was born and dreams came to life. I made that promise as a fledgling teacher long before the harshness and realities of this profession were known to me. Then that first day of school finally came when I stood in front of my own students in my own classroom with my own future right in front of me...and I broke that promise, too.
My class wasn't the place students were running to get to; they were just running period...all over me! I couldn't even get them to sit down. I couldn't make learning fun because I couldn't make learning happen at all. And the only thing I was nostalgic for back then was the weekend. I counted down the days, hours, and minutes each and every week until it arrived. As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, I swore to myself that if I couldn't have that "perfect" classroom (the one I had imagined inside my head those many years ago when all I ever thought about was being a teacher) I would give up on my promise and find a new profession. That first semester was the hardest. I remember crying alone in my bathtub every Friday night, praying to God he'd give me the strength to go back into work on Monday. Somehow, each Monday morning, I'd find it.
Around Christmas time that year, one of my students gave me a Christmas card. It wasn't anything fancy; in fact, if I remember right, she made it herself. But I can still see the front cover as clearly today as I did when I first held it in my hand. It was the color of custard cream, like the inside of donut, and adorned with cut-out pictures from coloring books that the child had obviously cut herself and then glued onto the paper. Red and green crayon marks scurried across the page. I smiled when I opened it, amused by its honesty and simplicity. Inside was a simple message: "Mrs. Skweres, thank you for being my teacher. You help me when I need it."
I thought to myself as I read it that this sentiment was a far cry from the impact I had hoped to make as a new teacher. It was small in scale; a minute success hidden amongst a plethora of failures. But isn't that how it comes to us in the world of education? Successes rarely hit us like a ton of bricks, but more often than not, brush our faces like feathers blowing on the breeze. It's our job to recognize them when they're there. Otherwise, they just blow by...unnoticed.
I'm learning now, 15 years later, to take pride in the small things. Those, after all, are the things that truly matter. Truth is, the "ideal" teacher that I had in my head was no more real than Santa Claus. They were an illusion. As a child, I believed in them both. I'm not sorry, though. Because it is that belief that has kept me going all these years; my belief that I may still keep my promise to myself and become the teacher I once dreamed I'd be. Until then, I keep that Christmas card handy--to help remind me.
I’ve also lived through eight Christmases—going on nine—and
I’m proud to say that my girls still believe in Santa Claus. I know all too well though, that it won’t
last long. I know one morning that my
girls will trickle downstairs, wearing their wrinkled nightgowns and over-sized
slippers, a somewhat disappointed look on their faces, to a tree covered in
ornaments and surrounded by presents, and everything will have somehow
changed. The magic will be gone. But I’m okay with that, too. Because I know that
they, like me and so many parents before me, will find the real magic of
Christmas again. When one day they look into the face of their own child and
see that wonderful anticipation of Christmas morning, they will believe. They’ll believe in Kris Kringle, in Rudolph’s
red nose, in the North Pole…they’ll believe in it all. Then they’ll discover that the magic of
Christmas rests not in what we believe, but in the hopes, hearts, and happiness
of our children. Then they’ll know the
real truth about Santa Claus. Until that
time, our plate of cookies and cup of milk will sit on our counter—waiting.
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