Happy to be Fooled

I vaguely remember the Christmases before and after this one year. It's probably because this one tops all the rest — the others just don't compare. But there’s this sequence of events that always took place.

The day before, Mom had us eat a big breakfast — something more than just a bowl of cereal. Then we kids cleaned the house top to bottom, while she prepped dinner for that night and the next day. By 2 p.m., we were starving. But no eating was allowed.

Around a quarter to five, we all showered and got ready. When we finally came down, Mom had the music playing — A Reba Christmas. Her scented candles had infused the whole house, and the last of the dinner items were just coming out of the oven.

In the family room, around the tree, there was a white sheet spread out with an assortment of snacks: carrots, celery, hand-sliced cheese squares, Ritz crackers, and Smokie Links.

Let me tell you — she C-O-V-E-T-E-D that recipe like Mother Teresa had handed it to her personally. She wouldn’t let anyone help make them. When I turned 15, she finally taught me how, but made me swear not to share the secret. You can bet how annoyed I was when I found the recipe on Google...

Anyway —

We sat around the tree and just existed in each other’s company. In my mind, I remember laughter and wholesomeness.

Afterward, my mom would take me to bed. Even though it was December — in Chicago — I had my window cracked open at my feet. And out like a light I went.

I’d wake up to my sister shaking me.

“Hey, hey, get up! I think Santa is outside!”

I’d sit up, trying to shake the sleep from my eyes. Then I’d hear bells jingling. I’d rush to the window — and then something on the roof. Footsteps? Reindeer hooves?

My sister would grab my hand and we’d go to my door, peeking through the crack. A light turned on downstairs and glowed through the stairwell.

Up until now — and even after — this tradition stayed constant. The only thing that changed was which sibling got to wake me up.

But this one year...

My sister and I crept down the stairs, and I heard a deep, belly-full “Ho-ho-ho!” Man, I was excited.

There’s a small entryway that leads from the living room into the kitchen, with a wall that connects to the stairs. We inched closer to the corner and peeked into the kitchen.

And we saw Him.

Velvet suit. Shiny black boots and a fluffy white beard.

Except... Now I wasn’t happy to see him.

That man was riding around on the scooter I asked HIM for — and had the nerve to fart while rolling through the kitchen.

I was ready to blow my too and storm in there, but my sister grabbed me and whisked me back upstairs to her room. She shut the door and burst out laughing. I couldn’t understand why — I was big mad.

Then we heard the footsteps on the roof again, followed by jingling bells — and then silence.

I marched to my mom’s room and woke her up. She just mumbled, “Go back to bed.” Then I walked into my brother's room but he was asleep.

In the morning, I went downstairs alone, to secure the crime scene, then I woke everyone up. My sister and brother followed me back to the kitchen and in walked my other brother. I told them the tale of what happened and show them the scooter — somewhat boxed up — with a note:

"Thanks for the ride! Next time I need better milk — this one made me farty. Rudolph says thanks for the carrots. You almost caught me — maybe next time!"

For years, I was convinced Santa was real. I had proof! It had to have been a three-man job, and my only suspects all had alibis:

My mom was in her room — I know, because I woke her up.

I was with my sister the whole time.

One of my brothers was in jail.

And the oldest? Passed out in his room.

So who else could it have been?

Eventually, my sister spilled the beans: it was our oldest brother in the Santa suit. Our brother was picked up by the town’s police chief — who was in on it, too. They were the ones up on the roof with the bells.

After the kitchen performance, my brother used a ladder to get back into his room. Conveniently, his bedroom window was right above the back sliding door.

I often think about that as the happiest I’ve ever been — not just because they had me fooled, but because it’s the only time I remember all of us being together.

That’s the bar I set now, when I do holidays with my own kids. Obviously, I won’t be crawling around on the roof, but pretending Santa is real — and building something elaborate around that magic — has become a staple.

I dread the day my daughter comes to her senses.

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Smokie Links Recipe

1 pack of Smokie Link wieners

1 pack of thin-cut bacon

1 pack of toothpicks

1 jar of molasses

½ bag of brown sugar

1 9x13 aluminum tray pan

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 375°F.

Sprinkle a thin layer of brown sugar across the bottom of the pan.

Cut the bacon into thirds. Wrap each Smokie Link with a piece of bacon and secure it with a toothpick.

Place the wrapped links into the pan. Don't worry too much about arrangement — they’ll move around while cooking.

Drizzle molasses generously over the top, making sure each piece is covered.

Bake for 30–45 minutes.

Smaller batches: 30 minutes

Larger or fuller trays: up to 45 minutes

Let cool for 10 minutes. Serve and enjoy!