As a small child, I used to wonder what exactly I’d done to Santa Claus to make him hate me. Not only did I never get presents on Christmas morning; he didn’t even have the decency to swing by and drop off some coal! My mother said something about us being Jewish, but this didn’t really make sense to me. I mean, I didn’t remember requesting a lack of presents on Christmas morning. I wondered if I could just put a sign on my window saying “Jewish child, but feel free to leave gifts.”

I despised Christmas time. There was the making of lists. (“Rachel, what should I ask for?”) There was the getting of presents. (“Rachel, check out my new remote-control airplane. Rachel, check out my new CD player!”)

Christmas was the worst, and no amount of Chinese food could make up for that. Due to my never-ending moping, when I was about six my mother decided to tell me that Santa was really just a lie parents told to their children. This piece of information delighted me. While my friends showed off their fabulous new possessions, I would think smugly to myself how naive they were.

However, keeping the secret was less fun, and my mother had forbidden me from telling any of my friends. I had to physically bite my tongue to keep from spilling the beans.

On the day after Christmas, my friend Hannah, her little brother Eric, and I were playing on the neighborhood playground.

“Why didn’t you get any presents for Christmas, Rachel?” asked Hannah, picking up her brand-new American Girl Doll off the ground.

“Because I’m Jewish,” I replied.

“So? I thought Santa gave presents to everybody,” protested Eric.

“Well he doesn’t,” I snapped.

“Why not?”

I paused, but unfortunately the beans came tumbling out. “Because it’s really your parents putting the presents under your Christmas tree,” I blurted.

“No it isn’t!” shrieked Hannah.

“You’re wrong!” screamed Eric, bursting into tears as he ran off to his house. This little episode ruined Santa Claus for Hannah, but fortunately, Eric wasn’t the brightest thing at the age of three, and somebody managed to convince him that I was a big fat liar.

Turns out, I wasn’t the brightest thing either, because while I totally didn’t believe in Santa Claus, there was not much doubt in my mind that the tooth fairy was real. I was so excited when I finally lost my tooth. I put it in a little plastic baggie and left a note requesting her to please just leave the money and not take my tooth. I could barely sleep that night, and when I awoke to a crisp dollar bill under my pillow, I jumped for joy. Then, a realization hit me.

“That means they were in our house!” I whispered, terrified, to my mother. At this point, most parents would have assured their children that there were not multiple tooth fairies, and that the one tooth fairy was very sweet and about the size of your thumb. Unfortunately, my mother must have been ill informed, so she told me that she had put the money under my pillow. By this time, I’d pretty much figured out the Easter Bunny for myself. I was also pretty convinced that one day my mother would admit to me that no adults really believed in God.

A couple of years passed, during which most of my friends found out that Santa was pretend either on their own, or from me. So when my cousin Caroline asked me if I believed in Santa Claus I figured it was a pretty safe bet to say no. After all, she was eleven, two years older than I was. But, to my horror, she jumped off the bean bag she was perched on, and ran up the basement stairs sobbing hysterically.

“Mommy, Rachel told me the Santa Claus/Tooth Fairy/Easter Bunny Secret!” she wailed. I gasped.

“No I didn’t, I just said…” I was amazed at Caroline’s evil brain. She couldn’t seriously blame this one on me. I hadn’t even mentioned the tooth fairy or the Easter Bunny! Needless to say, I was furious.

As I got older, I became a bit more skilled at keeping the Santa secret. One Christmas, our next-door neighbor decided to hide her daughter’s “from Santa” bike in our garage. Her daughter, Annie, was one of my best friends. She was also two years younger than me, so spilling the beans, as my mother carefully articulated, was not an option. Day after day I would look at her shiny new pink bike with the white plastic basket and sparkly plastic streamers and wish I could tell her about it. One day, Annie came over to my house.

“My mommy said not to mention Christmas,” she said, plopping down on our couch.

“Huh,” I said, somewhat confused. “You wanna go play outside?” Annie agreed, suggesting we take a short cut through my garage.

“Oh, that’s a bad idea…” I said, looking to my mother for assistance.

“It’s really messy, Annie, trust me, you wouldn’t want to see it,” she offered.

“That’s fine,” said Annie, heading towards the garage. “I saw it like, last week.”

“No!” I shouted, throwing myself in front of the door. “Let’s just go out the front.”

“Okay…” said Annie, looking at me suspiciously.

I never did end up ruining Santa Claus for Annie. In fact, I kept the secret so well that her mother had to break it to her gently before she started middle school.

Sometimes I wonder if not believing in these common childhood myths ruined my imagination. Then again, just because I didn’t believe in the tooth fairy didn’t mean I stopped leaving my teeth under the pillow. And anyway, imagination is overrated.