If Only in My Dreams

This has nothing to do with politics and everything to do with nostalgia.

My daughter is 8 and I have no idea if she still believes in Santa. I take personal responsibility for this as we never did do that whole creepy “Elf on the Shelf” thing. Because I’m not a psychopath.

Of course I was just about her age when I realized that Santa was a lie hoisted on me by my parents. That Christmas, my parents called an emergency family meeting to explain to us that even though Santa wasn’t real, Jesus was. Oh, really? Like Jesus would’ve known I wanted a baby doll who came in an impossibly tiny suitcase and was perfect in every way? I didn’t think so.

I named her Sugar Plum. And she was my best baby doll ever. She slept in a pink crib right next to my bed and she had a pink blanket and pink pajamas and a pink dress and pink poncho for when I took her outside, which wasn’t very often because I needed to shield her from the neighborhood bullies who managed to dislocate my shoulder more than once while playing Red Rover. When I had to leave her alone at home I would beg my mother to get her a babysitter, like maybe that girl up the street who never goes on dates.

As I got older, Sugar Plum was relegated to the basement with all the other forgotten toys—the Smurf village, the Barbie heads, that stuffed rabbit I loved so much but had to get rid of after I had scarlet fever.

Now that I no longer believed in Santa there was no real surprise on Christmas morning. Instead as I opened my presents and stocking stuffers I yawned and said, Oh, look, another one from my LYING PARENTS. It was hard to get all excited on Christmas knowing that there was no Santa and that the half-baked red and green sprinkled sugar cookies we had carefully laid out the night before had been eaten by our cairn terrier.

Of course, we did have lovely presents before my heart was ripped in two. There was that Victorian dollhouse with a family of four plus some indentured servant/governess. We would just stick the dad on top of the roof because he was either at work or some clandestine Whig party meeting.

There was the Cabbage Patch “preemie.” Yes, preemie, as in premature. Because there’s nothing cuter than playing with a tiny doll in a make-believe NICU. (I kid you not. Look it up.)

Don’t forget the Strawberry Shortcake dolls. If memory serves, and it rarely does, I had Strawberry Shortcake, Blueberry Muffin, Lemon Meringue, and Peach Blossom. All of these wonderful scented dolls, piled on top of each other in a corner of my room. It smelled like a nursing home for rotting fruit.

In Christmases past, caroling, or “wassailing,” was really big. We always had carolers come by our house, including one of the suspiciously joyful nuns from the convent brandishing her guitar. Unlike my neighbors, I saw no reason to go door to door unless it was Halloween and they were handing out free candy. My parents would invite the carolers in for holiday drinks and general merriment until one of the neighbors invariably passed out and ruined Christmas for everyone.

No one goes caroling these days. The last time I saw a group of people approaching my door I dropped to the floor and didn’t get up until they left. (I spent the next two days apologizing to my in-laws.)

Perhaps I’ll take my daughter, who may or may not still believe in Santa, out caroling this year. Unfortunately I’ll have to perform my haunting rendition of O Holy Night solo because she’ll be holding on to our pug while he barks menacingly at the elderly.

You know, I’m not sure what ever became of Sugar Plum but I’ll always remember her as the best Christmas present ever. And everyone needs one of those.