So Last Christmas , being a new Ya Ya and all, after much searching , pleading, money changing and bended-knee begging, I found a real live Santa to come to our house on Christmas Eve to surprise my grandson, Charlie, then a year and half old.  We have an annual party each Christmas Eve for a few friends and relatives which started out as a one time deal and has become a sacred tradition in our family.

Anyway, I thought this Santa appearance was going to be a  brilliant idea and spent all of Christmas Eve day anticipating the glory of his arrival. I didn’t tell my daughter or her husband or the rest of the family, thinking the fewer who know, the the more joyous and  authentic his appearance would be. He dressed in the garage using a hand mirror propped on a stool that I had carefully hidden from view. He strolled the yard with his big black boots and bowl full of jelly belly and waited patiently until his appointed entrance time.

As the clock stuck six, he came “Ho Ho Ho-ing” through the door to no one. Zippo, zappo.  Not a soul. I was frantically heating appetizers in the kitchen, my husband was setting up the bar and my son in law was pushing match books under the legs of said bar table, as it was wobbling uncontrollably under the weight of the 5 gallon Grey Goose and Jim Beam bottles my husband insisted on purchasing for the event at Cosco.

My daughter was upstairs readying my grandson for his first real Christmas party and unfortunately when the big red furry guy arrived, Charlie was still in the bathtub.

So I offered Santa some eggnog and kibble for his deer and seated him on the living room couch where he waited patiently for precious grandson number one to come downstairs.

Now I am sure you are all chuckling before I deliver the punch line. Of course Charlie was petrified of this huge stranger with the big white beard and floppy red hat and cried historically, hugging his mother’s shoulder and begging him to go away.  But YaYa prevailed to elicit at least a tiny high five exchange between the two of them and an almost sit on Santa’s lap, albeit, thirty seconds with daddy holding Charlie mid-air in a quasi-seated position.

So this year, we are talking up this Santa guy earlier.  Showing Charlie pictures.  We took him to a distance viewing last weekend at our local village green. We’re reading Santa Christmas books.  Explaining where he lives and how he makes a living making toys for little children.

So last night we were driving home from a family outing to buy our Christmas tree.  Charlie was sitting in his car seat recapping the event. He was talking about the outdoor fire, the cider, the buzz saw he was more afraid of than last year’s Santa. And then there was a pause in the conversation and he asked where Santa lives and his mom said quickly, “Oh, in the sky.”  And Ya Ya quickly corrected mommy saying, “No, that is Jesus who lives in heaven, Santa lives at the North Pole.”  To which my son-in-law mumbled under his breath something like, “We get those imaginary people mixed up.”

Oh, man, do I have my work cut out for me, educating my grandsons about Santa and Jesus. If I leave it up to their parents, they’ll think Santa has  twelve disciples and Jesus had his last supper with a bunch of elves.

Does the generation behind me think all the religion and tradition and bigger than ourselves stuff I tried to impart to them in their upbringing–weekly Sunday school and confirmation–was all a bunch of bunk?!

Let’s see.  It took a week  and a couple hundred bucks to find Santa last year, so if I start now building the manger, put a “No Vacancy” sign on my Inn and truck in a few sheep and a donkey, maybe, just maybe…