This story is about my Christmas as a seven-year-old.

Childhood Story
Sarah Orosz
As a bright eyed seven-year-old child, time was something I never had to worry about. I just recall watching with wonder as summer shifted into autumn. I never had to wear a watch or worry about being late for any meetings. However, the one period of time that I made sure I was aware of every year was the glorious peppermint flavored month of December. Multi-colored lights would appear on rooftops and trees would glitter with freshly fallen snow. I would watch all of this take place, and I would be in a state of awe struck bliss. I adored every tradition of Christmas, but the ultimate part for me was the man in the red suit- jolly old St. Nick. I loved him from afar- I recall reading about him in bedtime stories, with his bright eyes, rosy cheeks and deep, happy chuckle. I saw him in the mall, or ringing bells in front of the grocery store, but the Christmas after I turned seven was the year he came to my house and my dreams of a jolly old elf came to a startling halt.
“How is my big seven year old girl?” My mom asked as she tiptoed into my room on Christmas Eve. “Daddy’s asleep and now we have to be quiet and go to bed so Santa can leave you wonderful presents!” Just hearing the word ‘presents’ made my heart do flip-flops. I obediently laid my head on the pillow as she kissed my forehead and left my room, leaving the door slightly ajar. I could see my neighbor’s twinkling red and green decorations clearly from across the street, and I tried with all my might to settle my little nerves. I was bubbling with anticipation, and the thrill of what could be wrapped under all that pretty paper and bows. In fact I was so excited that every time I tried to squeeze my eyes shut they would fly back open. Finally after a few minutes my heart grew calm, and I shut my eyes and drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face. My head was whirling with happy thoughts…but not for long.
“Sarah, wake up,” my mom whispered. I sat up, groggy and confused. My room was dark, and the moon was still up and glowing in the sky. It wasn’t morning yet, and I had not the slightest notion what all the commotion was about. “What’s going on?” I asked as I rubbed my eyes. A smile played across my mother’s lips. “Santa Clause is here. He’s really in the house! He’s downstairs, come and see!” At that moment I heard a thumping noise coming from downstairs and immediately my joy was replaced by the feeling of uncertainty. “Mom, are you sure it’s Santa? I’m going to get Daddy,” and I marched all the way across the hall to my parents room, but my mom grabbed my hand before I could enter the doorway. “No honey, Daddy’s very tired and we need to let him rest. This’ll be our secret.” I trusted her, but I was still weary of the strange noises I heard downstairs.
My curiosity got the best of me, and I started my walk down the flight of stairs into the living room, and my heart was beating like a tom-tom. I slowly peeked around the corner and saw a huge man; he was very tall with and he had big belly. I noticed he was wearing Santa’s suit. Except as he bent over to place the delicate gifts under the tree I heard him grunting and wheezing. He didn’t look jolly at all, and he didn’t seem to be full of Christmas cheer. I was terrified, and silently fled back upstairs before he could notice me. “ I don’t want to talk to him…he seems busy.” I proclaimed in a shaky voice. “Okay, but I’m glad you got to see him!” my mom gloated. Then to our surprise we heard the back door shut, and mom ushered me to the bathroom window, which overlooked the backyard. “Look, Santa’s leaving,” mom squealed happily. I watched as the six foot Santa struggled to walk through two feet of snow, and when he reached the wooden fence in our backyard, he put one leg over it, lost his balance, and fell face first into the snow! His legs were flailing wildly, and I started laughing at poor Mr. Claus. My mother’s face fell into concern, “Oh dear,” I heard her mutter. Then Santa was up on his feet trudging away. My mom put her hand on my shoulder, “ Well, let’s get you back to bed.”
A few short years later I learned that in fact it was my father that was the grunting man in the Santa suit. Even when I think about this incident today, it still makes me laugh, and I love my parents for going through so much trouble to help me believe in the innocence and wonder that is Christmas.