Hey, Virginia!

I can remember the last Christmas that I believed in Santa.  I was the usual age, whatever that is, about 6 or 7.  My brother started in on the whole Santa story in early August once he discovered I was responsible for the dirt in his toothbrush while we were camping (my flip flops weren't going to clean themselves).


My older brother, The Enemy, explained to me how Santa would just know when I was being naughty because he could see me all the time.   And he kept score.  Good stuff meant more gifts, naughty stuff meant those gifts went to The Enemy.

This changed a few things.  For one, it meant that for about a week I refused to pee or take a bath with the lights on. It also meant The Enemy, once a figure to be pitied for being two whole huge years older and therefore stupid, had some inside information that I wasn't aware of.  The balance of power had shifted.

This bore study. 

I watched my brothers' every move that Christmas and it didn't seem to make sense to me that Santa didn't notice him shake all the gifts under the tree or lick all the Tutti Frutti candy canes and put them back, things he did without fear of losing gifts to his little sister.  Yet Santa could tell when I snuck broccoli to the dog or left my wet boots on the kitchen floor.  Hmmm.

The Enemy finally fouled up when he tried to convince me that good deeds done for older brothers were worth extra Nice Points.  Now, I am not saying I came into this world a cynic, but even at the tender age of whatever I knew when I was being played.  The gig was up.  I tested this be-nice-to-brother hypothesis by grasping my big brothers budding obsessive compulsive disorder around the neck and riding it like a trick pony for days.  I  hid hair in his mashed potatoes. I stole his Garfield stuffy and did horrible things to it. I dressed Starsky and Hutch in Barbie fashion.  I moved his juice glass to the opposite side of his plate. I committed acts of evil The Enemy still has not recovered from to this day.

It was a thing of beauty.

And did Santa retaliate?  Was I naughty listed and left nothing but coal that year?  No.  I made out like a bandit as always.  So did The Enemy although, instead of the usual hunting and fishing-themed gear, his gifts tended more towards soft toys and bouncy balls for some reason.

So that is the story of how I stopped believing in Santa. 

Or "How My Brother Got That Twitchy Eye"