The Santa Inquisition

My niece slept over at our house the other night. She’s 8. One of the things I love most about 8 year olds is their brutal honesty. She didn’t hesitate to announce “I’m BORED” when she tired of the video game that she and her cousin were playing. She was the first to compliment my dinner – I even got applause! 8 year olds don’t pull any punches – and they expect the same forthright behavior from everyone else. Hence the hairs standing up on the back of my neck when she asked, between mouthfuls of salad, “Auntie, you don’t have a fireplace. So how does Santa get in your house?” WOAH! A million questions flooded my brain! What has my sister told her? Is she wanting a serious answer? Is she still looking at me? Hey.... How DOES Santa get in our house?!?! In all truthfulness, I said, “You know, honey, I’m not really sure. Sometimes I think he unlocks the front door.” She replied, quite simply, “Nahhhh… I don’t think so.” “Well,” I asked, “what do YOU think?” She said, “At first I was thinking the basement windows – but he’s too fat for those!” Well fine! We'll get the “0 trans-fat cookies” for this Christmas Eve! We ultimately reached the consensus that, since he’s magic, he can come in any way he pleases – but our current agreement is that he probably uses the back door since it’s close to the stairs leading down to the tree. Crisis averted!! Or, so I thought… With barely enough time to swallow, she said, “Auntie, I asked my mom and I don’t think she knows….” Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh CRAP! “Who exactly are the elves? I mean, they aren’t Santa’s kids, right?” My husband chose this moment to helpfully chime in with “The elves work for Santa – he’s like their boss.” Well, my niece thought this quite ludicrous because “What boss would give THAT many people a place to live and food and stuff???” Good point, kiddo… and you’ve yet to swing through the trees of the corporate jungle! We convinced her that, yes, the elves are workers but Santa has lots and lots of room for them at the North Pole. Particularly since his whole “compound” is invisible anyway – a fact that we all learned from “Miracle on 34th Street.” I was seriously thankful for hanging on to our VHS tapes at that very moment! Just as I felt it was safe to dive back into my pasta… “Does Santa freeze time?” I know my sauce wasn’t spicy but I'm pretty sure I broke a sweat. Harking back to that “Miracle on 34th Street” education, I suggested that Santa slows down time… so a minute becomes an hour, an hour becomes a year, a year becomes a millennium. I sat, quite proud of my sometimes laggy, 42-year-old memory, until she responded, “Yeah. So basically, he freezes time.” I was losing my appetite. “My friends at school don’t believe Santa’s real, Auntie,” she said in a most dejected tone. NOW, the truth spilled out, without hesitation… “That’s really sad, Sweetie. Of course Santa’s real. No one sees him because he makes sure of that. I believe in Santa. Everyone has a Santa and Santa loves them very, very much.” “I’m going to sleep by the tree, Auntie. I told my friends I was going to take his picture and then they would believe.” ACK!!!!! “Oh… but you CAN’T do that, love… Santa’s been at this for a VERY long time and every child knows that Santa won’t come if you’re awake.” “But I’m a GOOD fake sleeper!” “Don’t you remember? ** insert spontaneous singing ** "He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awaaaaaake…” At this point, she got quiet, stirring her chocolate ice cream into sludge. “I guess so. If no kids have done it, after ALL that time, I guess I can’t either… Santa’s REALLLLLLLLLYYYY old, huh Auntie?” “Yes, honey, he is.” And, now, SO AM I – aged rapidly by the honest inquisition of an 8 year old!