The December after I turned six years old, I hatched a plot. I’d leave a note for Santa asking to accompany him on his rounds. I felt sure if I asked nicely, he’d wake me up and take me along. though Mother assured me it wouldn’t happen. I laboriously wrote this note.
Dear Santa,
I have been good. Can I go with you ? I hate dolls. I want a BB gun and a blue bicycle. I love you.
Linda
About bedtime, Mother said she heard the jingle bells on Santa’s sleigh. I flew to the door to try to catch Santa but didn’t catch him. Mother sent me to bed since he wouldn’t come until I went to sleep. It took me forever to go to sleep. I was disappointed to wake up in the morning and find I’d been left at home.
We knew not to go in to see if Santa had come before waking our parents. Mother dragged out the anticipation by making coffee before we went to see what Santa had brought. When we were finally allowed in, Mother pointed out a note taped to TV screen, “Linda, did you think you could catch me?”
My parents laughed but I was devastated. Not only did Santa ditch me, he thought it was funny.
When I opened my presents, I got a life-sized baby doll that could pee its diaper. I threw it down and stomped my foot, “I hate dolls. I wanted a BB gun.” I got a spat and a warning to behave myself. Mother pointed out the biggest package under the tree with my name on it. I tore into it only to find a tin tea set with a Dutch boy and girl on it. I wanted to throw a fit but knew what that would get me.
Seeing my disappointment, Mother tried to distract me. “Here open this present from Grandma.” It was the twin of the doll that had already gotten me in trouble. My sister got a blue bicycle. I found out later that day my two boy cousins my age got BB guns.
The only thing that saved my Christmas was finding a big red rocking horse behind the tree. I loved it.
The only time I ever played with those accursed dolls was when my cousin Sue and I treated them to a funeral the next summer. My mother was a slow learner. I got a doll the next two Christmases as well.
We’d put away all the Christmas decorations weeks before. We’d finally gotten our eighteen month old, John, to bed after several unsuccessful attempts and had collapsed, totally whipped. Meanwhile, he’d been entertaining himself rummaging quietly through a dresser drawer we’d thought inaccessible. After a few minutes, he toddled into the living room victorious dragging garland, an ornament in each hand, announcing, “Santa Claus is coming to town. I’ll be damned!”
Nutsrok 