“If you don't go to sleep, Santa won't come!”
It was the fourth time my weary and increasingly cross mother warned me. I was determined to lay eyes on the real Santa Claus, no matter the cost. I desperately wanted a Cathy-Quick-Curl, but even the hope of the highly treasured doll could not subdue my curiosity.
Momma ushered me to bed, laying beside me to make sure I stayed there. My sister was already obediently asleep. “Goody-goody,” I muttered, quietly resenting her ability to suck up even in her sleep. “I'll just lie as still as I can until momma thinks I'm asleep too.” Even at six years old, I knew that I would have to slow down my breathing and relax my body for it to be believable; yet I would have to be careful not to drift into slumber. It was a fine balancing act that paid off: to my surprise, momma fell asleep before I did.
I lay there a few minutes more, not daring to move in case she was faking it, too. I finally dared to slowly crawl to the end of the bed and breathed a silent sigh of relief when my feet hit the floor without her even stirring.
Gathering my slippers and a pillow, I stole to an inconspicuous spot beneath the Christmas tree to await our jolly old house guest. What I would say when I saw him, I had no idea. I hadn't thought that far ahead. I tried to imagine how it might go.
I would stay hidden as Santa unknowingly climbed out of the fireplace, then jump out and surprise him. Under my breath I asked myself, “What if he's so startled he drops the gifts and they break? He might get really angry – and that would certainly wake momma. I'd be in big trouble for a really long time. No, that won't do.”
I might stay hidden the whole time. But if he discovered me as he was leaving presents under the tree, that might startle him, too. And it would be really hard to explain why I was camped out there while momma was asleep in my bed. Again I said to myself, “No, this won't do.”
I lay there for what seemed like hours, thinking it over. It didn't matter what scenario I played out in my mind. The result was always the same: Santa would be upset, or angry, or startled; and I would be in trouble for trying to catch him in action. A yawn escaped my body as my thoughts drifted into nothingness.
A sunbeam shone through the window directly into my face, waking me. I opened my eyes slowly and sat up. Santa's cookies were gone, and there were new presents under the tree. I had missed him! I was about to sneak back to my room when I saw the note on the plate of cookies.
“Better luck next year!” it said. “Love, Santa.”