The Other Holy Trinity

My family celebrates Christmas, and Santa was a huge deal to me as a kid. I'd go to bed early on Christmas Eve to make sure he didn't skip our house (due to the "children must be sleeping for the Big Man to show" rule), then spring out of bed on Christmas morning and race into the living room to see the artificial tree and its twinkly lights, its base suddenly overflowing with presents wrapped in paper and ribbon.

It was the highlight of my kid year.

Not only was there Santa, there was also the Easter Bunny who left baskets filled with jelly beans, chocolate eggs in colored foil, Peeps. And the Tooth Fairy, who slipped coins and a note under my pillow in exchange for each baby tooth. I worked those loose teeth relentlessly with my tongue and chubby fingers, to hurry up the process and get that much closer to my prize.

I remember realizing that as long I did what mom asked and showed a modicum of effort and cheerfulness, there would be rewards throughout the year. As if I was a six-year-old with a government job.

It was that year or maybe the one after when I was looting my Easter basket and looked closely at the tag. “To: Deonne, From: Easter Bunny.” The handwriting looked strangely familiar. I peered at it more closely, forgetting all about the sugar smorgasbord.

I marched into the kitchen where my mother was doing dishes.

“Mom? How come the Easter Bunny writes like you?”

My mother put down the dishrag and looked at me. “What do you mean?”

I waved the tag at her. “The Easter Bunny writes like you do when you make the grocery list.”

She frowned. I persisted. “Mom, how come?” I paused. She was silent. I shifted in my Keds.

Then it hit me.

“Mom, are you the Easter Bunny?” I stood firm. I needed an answer.

She took a breath. “I’m afraid so.” She paused, reaching for something encouraging to say. “But isn’t it nice to get candy on Easter? Because you’ve been such a good girl?”

My petite brain kicked into overdrive, analyzing this new piece of information, making connections. I had a bad feeling about this. I remembered the notes from the Tooth Fairy.

“Mom, are you the Tooth Fairy, too?” I stretched the o’s into a wail. My mother was silent, looking down into the dishwater. My brain kept working. “And if you’re the Tooth Fairy, what about Santa?” My mother was clearly unprepared for this to come out now over a sink full of dirty dishes.

“Mom! What about Santa?” I had reached full on shrill at this point. My mother just shook her head and gave me a half smile. I ran out of the kitchen and escaped to my room. Life as I knew it was over.

My mother came in and sat down on the bed. “We don’t need Santa to have a nice Christmas. You can help me this year with the tree and the presents, just like a big girl! It’ll be fun!”

My mother is rarely wrong, but she missed this one by a mile. That Christmas was terrible. All the magic and mystery had gone out of it, and even though I tried to put on a good face, it felt forced and hollow. The presents were nice and plentiful, but still, it wasn’t the same as when I thought a fat guy in a beard was squeezing his way down our chimney with a bag of toys. It was just my parents buying the presents, wrapping them the night before, putting them under the tree. Real life, not a fairy tale.

But the next year was better. I still got candy at Easter and coins for my teeth. I quickly realized that getting treats and money from anybody was a pretty good deal. And I did have fun with my mom that Christmas, shopping, wrapping presents, writing out gift tags in my schoolgirl cursive. And every year after.

This Christmas is going to be different, again. Mom and I are used to having a big decorated tree, a lavish meal, a fire. But my stuff is still in Taos (ornaments and kitchen everything), and my apartment is fireplace-less, so this year it’s a Christmasy flower arrangement and snacks in front of the radiator. We’re reinventing the holiday one more time.