Chicken Pox and Santa Claus
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When you're a child, the only thing worse than being ill on Christmas is discovering that Santa isn't real. Believe me, I'll never forget how I found out. During the winter of '88, an epidemic of chicken pox infested my 1st grade class. One by one my classmates started to disappear for weeks at a time. I thought I'd be okay since Christmas break was coming up. I was dead wrong. Just two days into my vacation I woke up one morning with little red spots all over me. I really didn't know what was happening to me. All I knew was that I itched all over, and it would only be a couple more days before Santa paid me a visit.
The next few days I spent in bed. My grandmother wouldn't let me go out and play for fear I'd spread the plague. Instead, I helped her bake Christmas cookies shaped like angels, stars, and candy canes which eventually went stale.
Slowly, but surely, Christmas Eve came. Like every Christmas before, we spent that evening at my grandmother's house with a few other family members. My mother made me wear these flannel pajamas that made my skin itch even more than before. She said she wanted me to stay warm so I wouldn't catch a cold which would only worsen my situation. I remember being so bored and anxious to go home that night. All the grown ups chatted and occupied themselves in the living room while I stayed in the play room with the rest of the kids. I peeked my head out every once in a while to see if my parents were getting ready to leave. My only desire was to go home and quickly fall asleep.
On the way home that night I ended up falling asleep in the car. My dad transported my sleeping body into my bed. I slept peacefully that whole night knowing that when I woke up in the morning I would have presents from Santa.
I woke up on Christmas morning around 7am. Scurrying down the hall I pushed open the door to my parents room. Running over to the side of the bed my mother slept on. A slight brush of her shoulder awoke her. She smiled down at me. "Are you ready to open Santa's presents?" she asked. I nodded, scratching my leg. Rolling over she nudged my father. He snorted loudly and rolled over to face the wall. "Daddy, daddy wake up!" I said tugging at his arm. "With another loud snort he answered, "I'll be up in a second."
My mother and I rushed into the front room as I dove under the tree. Within a few minutes I had all the presents with my name on them opened and inspected. Finally, my father came out into the living room and plopped down on the couch. Rushing over to him I held up one of the presents Santa had left me. "Look what Santa left me Dad!" I said with enthusiasm. My dad chuckled. With a gleam in his eye and a sly smile on his lips he motioned for me to come join him on the couch. "I have a secret for you" he told me. "Last night when Santa was here, he was making too much noise so I shot him!" I felt my smile fade and my eyes grew big. I looked over at my mother. She covered her face with her hand and shook her head in disbelief. "Y-you killed Santa?" I asked. My dad laughed "Sure did!" he answered. My bottom lip began to quiver. My eyes filled with tears. Bolting off the couch I headed for my room. My mother followed behind me. All the way down the hall I could hear my dad laugh and tell me he was just kidding, but I didn't care.
Now please do not get the wrong idea about my father. He's not a mean man and would never do anything to hurt me. He just has a very sick and twisted sense of humor, which I didn't appreciate then but I have grown to inherit.
After the Christmas of '88 I grew a little wiser. I learned that chicken pox itch like crazy and flannel doesn't help. My father was slightly disturbed, and that I really didn't care if there was a Santa or not, as long as I got presents.