Ho Ho Hop: Why I've Never Been Good at Connecting the Dots

I read "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing" the summer before second grade. I've always been ahead of my time. This is how I learned that either Santa wasn't real or Judy Blume was fooling generations of children. This was a lose-lose proposition for my second-grade heart, but ultimately, it was easier to swallow the Santa-shaped pill.

I confronted my parents.

"Is Santa real?" My mother didn't say a word, only looked at my father, whose face was lined with heartbreak and resolve. He had known this was coming. He just wasn't prepared for the conversation in the middle of June.

"Why do you ask, Panders?"

"I'm reading a book, and there's a part about how Santa isn't real."

"What the hell kind of books are you letting her read?" He is addressing my mother.

"It's Judy Blume, Daddy!" He is unmoved by my proclamation. Daddy was probably too busy reading "Animal Farm" at my age to know anything about Judy Blume.

"You taught her to read early, and now she reads above her grade level." My mother gives him that shrug that implies, "You created this monster."

My father never wanted to lie to me if he didn't have to. Cultivating a Christmas tradition based on fantasy and miracles to give his child magical Christmas experiences was one thing; outright lying when asked a direct question was another thing entirely. And Daddy wasn't down for it.

"No, Baby Girl, he is not. At least not in the way you've imagined him. But the spirit of Santa is very real for some people. For the people who believe in the magic of Christmas, the spirit of Santa shows itself every day, not just in December."

I'm seven. I read above grade level, but that doesn't always mean I comprehend above grade level. I'm looking at my father in utter confusion.

"Think about Nanny and Papa." My grandparents. My mother's folks.

"You know how there are always treats and goodies waiting for you whenever you're there? How Nanny loves playing cards with you, and Papa loves making milkshakes with you?" I was very aware, but what was he getting at?

"Or how Papa dresses up as Santa every year for you kids?"

Wait, what?

Every year, my family gathered at my grandparents' on Christmas Eve. Gifts were exchanged, and snacks devoured. The adults got drunk on liquor, and the kids got drunk on sugar and dreams. And every Christmas Eve, Santa himself would take time out of his busy delivery schedule to visit my cousins, brother, and me. Only, as I was now discovering, it had been my Papa all along. In hindsight, it checks out.

My parents explained that spoiling the magic for others who still believed would be unkind— and un-Santa-like. It felt like an awfully unfair ask. Do you mean to tell me I have to keep up the charade for these babies who still get to believe while I'm stuck carrying the weight of the sad, sad truth?

Amanda, seen here carrying the weight of the sad, sad truth, while her brother carries the literal weight of the sad, sad girl

For a short while, I envied my classmates. They were getting an extension on childhood while I was bending over backward to keep it going for them. Still, I walked away from that conversation feeling immensely grown—like I'd been invited into a secret adults-only club. Ultimately, that was enough to sway me to the side of good and graciousness.

And just like that, I was seven going on seventeen.

Summer turned to fall, which morphed into the holiday season. I was primed and ready to join the adults in making merriment for the children—some older than me, thank you very much. And while it nearly killed me not to share that I was smarter and more grown than them, I made it—by the grace of the Spirit of Santa—all the way through Christmas without ruining it for anyone. Except maybe for my parents. They must have been saints not to kill me that holiday season, given how absolutely intolerable I must've been at home about the entire thing.

Somehow, we all persevered as Advent flowed into the Lenten season, and we planned for Easter the way we planned for everything else: with blind folly and disastrous communication. Easter has always been a contentious—sometimes traumatic—holiday for me. And I'm not even talking about Easter's utterly harrowing and wildly confusing premise.

I'm talking about the year my beloved parakeet died, and I was fed some grade-A nonsense about how the Easter Bunny needed him to help deliver eggs. How many baskets did they think he could carry with that tiny beak of his?

Most other Easters seemed to end—or begin—with a healthy dose of family drama and a sugar crash.

But that Sunday morning, when I woke up to find everything exactly as it was on any other given Sunday, I lost my ever-loving mind. It was Easter. I was sure of it. But there were no eggs. No baskets. No chocolate bunnies. Not even a trace of that aggravating neon plastic "grass" stuck to the carpet. Just my mom yelling at me to get my butt in gear for mass. There were zero signs the Easter Bunny had been anywhere near our house.

Was he running late?

"Did the Easter Bunny come this morning?"

"Excuse me?" My mother hadn't burped, so I repeated myself.

"Did the Easter Bunny come?"

"Girl quit messing around and get dressed."

"It is Easter, right?"

"You don't believe in the Easter Bunny anymore."

The hell I didn't.

"What are you talking about?" My entire life was crumbling around me where I stood.

"Remember? Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing? You learned that Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy were all made up?"

"What?! The Tooth Fairy isn't real either?!?"

"I knew it was too good to be true—how well she was taking it." My father had joined the conversation.

"You knew about this the whole time and didn't tell me?!?"

I was incredulous. Heartbroken. Betrayed.

By my own father.

The rest of that day was a complete and total loss. I pouted all the way through mass and our family Easter dinner.

Amanda, seen here threatening to drive her mother into a brick wall for the suffering she’s caused

As an adult, I pursued a career as a dental hygienist—because, obviously, that's just a professional tooth fairy with scrubs and scalers.

And with every tiny tooth I collect, I can feel myself inching closer to uncovering the truth. Until I reveal the greatest secrets in the history of magic and enchantment, I urge my readers to get back in the habit of leaving cookies, carrots, glittery notes—whatever the situation calls for. Maybe they stopped showing up because we stopped leaving refreshments. And we only stopped because our parents told us they weren't real. I think you can see where I'm going with this.

Maybe the magic isn't gone—it's just waiting for us to believe in it again.

Hoppy Easter to all, and to all a lifetime of curiosity, imagination, delight, magic, wonder, and the spirit of Santa!

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