love hurts
Remember your first heartbreak? It started with that feeling of pure joy that made your little heart go pitter patter and a smile cross your face for once in your angsty pre-teen life. Do you also then, remember that first time the pitter patter sunk, turning from a pitter patter to a dull thud in your stomach. Time to puke your guts out, burst into tears, and bury yourself in a hole all at once because the dream, you idiot, is over.
For me, it was Santa Claus.
I was steeped in white middle class magical realism since I was born. My parents, both generally fans of pranks and theatrics, went above and beyond the standard “*Yawn* Looks like he came!” style of Santa pageantry. Christmas Morning, Easter Morning, and yes, even St. Patrick’s Day morning, always came with one thing: evidence of magic.
There were footprints in the snow that came from nowhere. The only possibility, my parents emphasized, was that “someone” had jumped off the roof and walked into the house. And when my reaction was “Well yeah, how else do you think he’d get in?” they seemed slightly disappointed. As if what they really wanted was for 6-year old me to pat them on the back and say, “Wow, you’ve really outdone yourselves! Let me buy you a beer for your troubles.”
One year, a scavenger hunt left by the Easter Bunny sent me into a tizzy. I was 4-years old and woke up to find no Easter basket and no evidence of magic. “But look! There’s a note to say to look under the TV remote for the next clue!”, my parents urged. I didn’t get it. Where was my basket and most importantly, WHAT HAD I DONE TO DESERVE THIS?
After bringing home a “leprechaun trap” I built at school, I swear I caught the briefest glance between my parents of, “We have to do this now too?” And still, the next morning, I found a long green thing hanging out of it. Though I was positive I had a dead leprechaun on my hands, when I carefully lifted the trap I found it was… a human-sized green plastic pipe with a shamrock on it.
“Why is this pipe normal sized? I thought leprechauns were small.”
“Ummm… he probably used his magic on it!” my dad answered like a pro.
So when, at the age of way-too-old-for-this, I noticed an alarmingly not-magic pattern in the tooth fairy’s visits, I was pissed.
My mom worked nights, and I noticed that if I lost a tooth while she was at home, I would find a dollar under my pillow that same night. However, if I lost a tooth while she was at work, I wouldn’t get a dollar until the next night. My brain jumped to the most logical conclusion:
My god, my mom is the tooth fairy.
But after thinking through it some more, I realized what all those kids at school confidently spouted must be true: the tooth fairy is not real.
I mulled this over without telling a soul until I lost another tooth. This time, I left it under my pillow along with a crass, accusatory note. “Dear Tooth Creature, I know you are not real. You suck. Love, Carrie”
The next day, my mom sat on the edge of the bed and broke it to me gently. The tooth fairy, easter bunny, and yes, even the big man himself (Santa) were not real. She went into agonizing detail about all the uncles and neighbors dressed as Santa that had “showed up” at our family gatherings. About how my dad got a running start from inside the house and leapt as far as he could into the yard while taking a 180 spin so he could land bootprints facing the house and leave more prints walking in.
I was floored. My brain jumped to the most logical conclusion:
“Does that mean God isn’t real either?”
“NO! God is real. That’s the only thing that’s real.”
I was dubious. I still am. Because spending years believing deep within my heart and soul about real magic in the world, only to have that idea revealed to be a long, elaborate, prank involving virtually every adult I’d been told to trust? That hurts.
