The Christmas I Couldn’t Sleep for Santa
A story from my childhood
8:00pm
As the mince pies puffed up in the oven and “Die Hard” cried out on the TV, my family settled into the final hours of Christmas Eve. My usual bedtime of six had been abandoned as I bounced on the sofa and refreshed “Santa Tracker” again and again. It was creeping up to eight before my mum stood up and reminded me the sooner that I sleep the sooner Santa could deliver the presents. She took me by the hand, her skin still scented by her long day of baking, and walked me to the kitchen. We made up a big jug of milk, a carrot, and one little cake for Santa and Rudolf’s arrival. Then she picked me up and took me off to bed. I waved goodnight to my older brother as I looked for the last time at the living room, empty of presents and footprints. He looked almost as unbearably excited as me.
9:00pm
In bed, my mum ruffled my hair, which scattered glitter from the tree like a snow globe, all over my tartan pyjamas.
“Which story?” she smiled, taking a seat at the end of the bed, by my empty stocking. “One Snowy Night?”
I giggled and pulled it out from under my pillow, thrusting the yellowed pages towards her as she began her ritualistic read. The hardest night of the year to fall asleep, but always the best.
She read on, describing the hot chocolate and little mice, the small Christmassy world which made my mind spin. I imagined it was real. I envisioned the beautiful animals and the snuggly bed, the story that felt more and more truthful as her lips acted as a vessel for the imagination. Every twist and turn as familiar as last year, yet as new as the first day of print. The book never got old, but I did. My years of being read to were numbered, but that made it sacred.
10.00pm
Then, it was lights out. My mum went to her own room, and I was plunged into darkness. The night-time silence suddenly saw all my excitement burn up into fear. I couldn’t stop looking at the clock, seeing hours drive past faster than I could keep up with them, and full well knowing that if I didn’t fall asleep soon then Santa wouldn’t bother with presents, and would sneak straight past my room and towards my brother’s.
2.00am
It was a monotonous and long-winded journey to midnight, where upon I was up on my feet and trying to rid myself of all the energy that was pent up inside of me. The stocking, of course, was still empty but my brother had told me earlier that Santa only came at 3am to our house, so I still had time. After, running, jumping, and getting too excited to bare it, 2am arrived and my door opened a notch. It was a careful and slow turn of the handle that alerted me, so I dove back into the sheets and tried to look as silent and sleepy as I could. Santa knows when you’re awake.
A hand was placed on my shoulder, and I gave up pretending, thinking Santa had caught me awake, ready with his naughty list. Instead, it was my mum’s comforting smile which greeted me.
“We heard you moving about, are you ok?” she asked me, sitting on my bed as my dad came in looking concerned. “Can’t sleep?”
I nodded furiously.
She took the book out from earlier and began to read it to me as I nestle back in the sheets, letting the words pour out in a whisper so my brother wasn’t woken up. Then it all went foggy and just like that, I was gone. It wouldn’t be long until Christmas morning now.
7.00am
When I woke up the following morning, my stocking was bursting with little gifts. It was seven, and the house was still asleep, but I erupted back into life. Running to the other end of the house, I jumped on my parent’s bed and emptied the presents out everywhere.
My mum looked up and smiled at me and said, “you’re lucky, Santa arrived just as you fell asleep!”
I completely, from the bottom of my heart, believed her. I couldn’t imagine my luck in falling asleep just in time. What are the chances?
I tucked in next to my parents and begged them to wake my brother up to let the present unwrapping commence. I rolled over into the cosy pillows and waited.
9.00am
I woke with a start. Nine! I was surrounded by a mountain of presents. My family encircled me, laughing and joking as I rose out of the sheets.
“Finally, sleepyhead!” my brother laughed.
Works Cited:
Butterworth, Nick. “One Snowy Night” 1989.
Images:
1- JillWellington, Pixabay.
2- JillWellington, Pixabay.
3- Vladvictoria, Pixabay.
4- Bru-nO, Pixabay.
5- Monicore, Pixabay.
