An array of crumpled wrapping paper and ribbons lined the floor, forming a carpet of green and red, reindeers and Christmas trees. It crinkled beneath me as my small feet made their way across. I had opened all of my Christmas gifts and had finished examining my new toys. I had reached the point when the novelty of the gifts starts to wear off and that rush of excitement and curiosity is exhausted. You wish you could turn back time and relive it all, but you can’t. So instead, my five-year old self turned her attention to the question at hand, the one she could not fathom, and asked every year: Where was Santa Claus? It wasn’t out of doubt, merely out of innocent childhood curiosity.

“Where’s Santa?” I demanded.

“He was here when you were asleep,” my mom answered in a sweet voice, hoping I wouldn’t continue my interrogation.

“I wanna see him!” I said. This time my dad took a shot at explaining it.

“He was here when you were asleep. He has so much deliveries to make that he has to work at night.”

“But how did he get in? We don’t have a chimney,” I reasoned.

“Umm-”

“He-he came in through the door,” my mom cut off my dad, proud of her quick answer.

“Did you see him?’ I asked eagerly.

“No, we were in bed too. We left the door open,” my mom said, without the slightest hesitation.

Before I could give much thought to this possible safety concern, I picked up the wooden sheep and ran my fingers through the napped white wool stitched on. It was my favorite animal, from the nativity scene I had seen at Bed Bath & Beyond. It was like the one I had seen on Sesame Street and at my friend Maya’s house. I had had a big smile on my face when we paid at the counter. Our family would finally be participating in a crucial part of celebrating Christmas.

After wishing the sheep “Merry Christmas!” I placed it back in its rightful home, next to the little baby Jesus in his crib. All of a sudden a frown spread over my face. Only a small bite had been taken out from the dark copper gingerbread cookies my mom and I had made together, and the glass of milk I had laid out for Santa was still half empty. The carrots I had cut into unproportionate chunks myself, for his reindeer, hadn’t been touched. I turned to my parents, hurt my gesture hadn’t been appreciated. This too was something I had decided to take up, having been inspired by the Christmas movies I so loved to watch. But my parents were able to provide an ample answer. Explaining that Santa must have been full, and my dad reluctantly took a bite from the half eaten cookie, quenching my dissatisfaction.

The next year, come Christmas day, I asked the same question but wasn’t as intent on getting an answer. Nor was I so disheartened when the cookies remained on the plate. Eventually, as I grew older, I stopped asking the question, but accepted Santa’s night hours. With each year my infatuation with Santa lessened. My insistence on displaying my coveted nativity scene weakened, as did my preference for gingerbread cookies over my mother’s foreign biscuits, or курабийки, whose recipe I realized was written in my own grandmother’s distinct scrawl. I began opening my ears to the myths of Santa not existing. And so one year I woke up to face the truth weighing down my heart: Santa wasn’t real. I knew it. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. But I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to continue the traditions surrounding his existence. And just maybe, I wanted to stay younger for just a little longer. I wanted for things to be kept simple. I didn’t want to be the odd one out in my group of friends who didn’t believe in Santa. So that year, I still wrote a letter to Santa, but I changed the tradition to include my parent’s names in the ‘Dear’ section. My mom and I baked cookies again, and although they weren’t for Santa, but for our pleasure, I was happy to be upholding this adopted tradition. I now knew that all those years my parents had been the ones eating, or more like nibbling, on the cookies. As time went on, I loosened the tight rein I had on these traditions further. I stopped believing, or pretending to believe in Santa altogether, but the spirit of the ‘lie’ my parents had instilled in me remained. The feeling of believing remains, a memory that brings a warmth in the cold winter months. Instead I began taking on the role of Santa. My mom and I would plan my father’s gifts, and my father and I would plan my mother’s gifts. Instead of writing the letters to Santa, my mom and I began our own tradition of taking a walk through the streets lined with snow, and the trees covered in twinkling lights, to discuss the gifts. Some traditions we carried on- like decorating the Christmas tree while listening to festive music, some traditions were forgotten- like the nativity scene, some evolved- like the baking of cookies, and some entirely new ones were adopted all together- like hanging stockings, something I had convinced my parents of. The idea of a perfect Hallmark Christmas with a set list of traditions, I no longer felt necessary to enjoy Christmas. Infact, I discovered more about my own parents’ foreign view on Santa, and even appreciated it. Growing up in communist Bulgaria, religion had been banned, so Christmas was no longer acceptable. Instead Santa Claus, or as he rightfully should be, St. Nicholas, was named ‘Grandfather Snow’ and gifts were exchanged on New Years Eve. There also weren’t that many gifts to give- things like tic tacs were considered a luxury. They obviously hadn’t gone to mass like my friends do, something I had wanted to do, but am now extremely grateful is not one of our family traditions. I realized that Santa, and everything that comes with him, was actually an adopted tradition, something that could have bothered me when I was younger, but I now appreciate. My parents had embraced the idea of Santa and hanging stockings to please me. The shining gold star we put on top of the tree is not a family heirloom, but it has the potential to become one. These stories and traditions are not set in stone, but fluid and changeable. Santa is not a matter of lies or truth, and of believing or not believing. Traditions, like Santa, aren’t a short bullet point on a standard list, they’re more like my grandmother’s recipe book: a little chaotic and disorganized, but one of a kind. These traditions are all part of our stories. We’re each given a story we can’t change, but we’re also given the pen to add to them. They can evolve, as do we. And so, learning the truth about Santa, was like learning my own truth. I discovered and came to terms with our unique Santa and somewhat motley traditions. I mean who else has an ex-commi Santa?