Day 4: Up on the Housetop

I am naturally curious, ok some may call it nosey. I don't do it maliciously, and I have learned to control it over the years, but when I get tipped off that something is going on I want to know what it's about. I guess I need that sense of control. When I was 8 years old, something, I don't remember what, made me suspicious about Santa. I suspected that Jolly Ole Saint Nick, the portly old fellow with rosy cheeks, 8 (9 if you count Rudolph) tiny reindeer and a sleigh full of toys, was actually a man and a women I call Mom and Dad. Dun, dun, duunnnn!

I was determined to confirm or refute my suspicions, so on Christmas Eve in our little apartment, after my dad tucked me in bed, I didn't fall asleep. Even a while later when my dad quietly checked on me, I pretended to be asleep. I quietly lay in bed, listening to what was going on outside my bedroom. Then I heard it. I heard my dad go out our front door multiple time; I heard the rustle of plastic shopping bags, the squeak of scotch tape, and the hiss of scissors slicing paper. I slid out of bed, carefully walked over to my bedroom door, and ever so slowly turned the door knob to crack the door open a very tiny bit. I peered through the crack and that's when I saw it. Mom and Dad wrapping presents and putting them under the tree. I KNEW IT!! Feeling thrilled at my discovery I quietly closed the door and walked over to the the desk in my room where previously that evening I had placed a small piece of paper and a pencil. I guess I had figured I would need to write my discovery down so that I wouldn't forget it, think it was a dream, or needed to provide proof to my friends. "Santa is Mom and Dad," I wrote and slid the paper under a pile of other stuff, after all I couldn't let THEM see it.

The next morning we got up, opened our stockings, and waited for the Christmas music so that we could open presents. While we opened presents I didn't let on that I knew. I couldn't spoil the fun for everyone (see I told you I wasn't malicious), and I was content to quietly know the truth. I can't recall how many years it was before I finally told my parents that I knew, I'm not even completely sure I've told them this story of how I found out (sorry Mom and Dad). So I guess the moral of the story is I'm sneaky and I'm nosey which is a dangerous combination for surprises. It is a good thing my husband is good at hiding stuff around the house, but it's also a little bit of torture.