Is Santa Real?

Christmas was approaching. Mother, exhausted from thinking of being festive, was taking a nap, and my friend Jeannie and I were whispering with great intensity. Actually, that's how Jeannie and I conducted our frequent arguments. Mother didn't care if we argued, but she didn't want to hear us. She'd made it clear: If she heard us arguing, Jeannie would have to go home. Of course, Jeannie was never sent home because Mother never heard us. We argued behind closed doors, and we whispered. On this particular afternoon, we were whispering about whether or not Santa Claus existed. Jeannie was sure he did not exist while I was sure he did. Finally, Jeannie went too far. Yes, entirely too far. She had the nerve to whisper that she had known there was no Santa Claus when she was seven. I was nine. How could I possibly believe in Santa Claus at my advanced age?

The time had come to appeal to Authority. We'd have to wake up Mother.

Here's how Mother described what happened next. I shook her shoulder and woke her up. Well, sort of woke her up. She was groggy, half asleep, half awake. Jeannie was standing next to me. I stuck my nose in her face. "Mother," I ordered, "tell Jeannie there's a Santa Claus." I then turned to Jeannie and said, "My mother IS truth." I didn't say, "My mother tells the truth." I said, "My mother IS truth." After that statement Mother was wide awake. She said that Jeannie was right. There was no Santa Claus, no man in a red suit with a white beard. What was real was the spirit of Santa Claus, the spirit of giving. It was the usual there-is-no-Santa-Claus chat parents have with their children. When she had finished, I turned to Jeannie and said in a quite triumphant tone, "See?" Jeannie was silent. I had won the argument. How could I lose? My mother was truth.