I hope you had a great Christmas. Mine was pretty good, but I’m at the age when it’s all about the kids and grandkids at this point. When people ask me if I’m excited about Christmas, I just shrug. “Not really,” I’ll say, and most people–kids especially–will look at me like I have three heads. But my relationship with Christmas–and Santa specifically–didn’t really start out on the right foot. Here’s a picture of me at three years old, presumably meeting “Santa” for the first time:

Things didn’t get any better as I got older. There’s a story I’ve told for years to those who know me: “As a kid, I only got socks and underwear for Christmas.” That’s not really true, of course. I got toys from time to time. Nothing too expensive, you understand; my parents were never rich. But they did well by me, and in retrospect, I have no complaints. (I still question their judgement in getting me Lawn Darts–as chronicled in a previous post–and am still convinced they were trying to take me out of the Raab equation.)

But the thing is, when I asked for something that was on the expensive side, I never usually got it. What I got for Christmas instead was a life lesson … and one that I never forgot.

One year, there was something I wanted really badly. I can’t remember what it was anymore, but I do remember that it was really all I wanted for Christmas, and it was big. Like a TV box-sized big. And that year, there was a TV-sized box under the tree. I curbed my enthusiasm as best I could and forced myself to open all the packages of socks and underwear first. (“Be careful with the wrap!” my mother would caution everybody as they opened the packages. “We can reuse the wrap for Randy’s birthday.”)

When I finally got to the big box, I unwrapped it only to find a smaller, gift-wrapped box inside. And inside of that, a smaller box. And, like those Russian dolls nestled within each other, the boxes got smaller and smaller until I got to the final box, which seemed only big enough to hold a wallet. Maybe it’s a wallet with money! I may have thought (who can remember after this long?).

No such luck. It was a small wooden plaque with a picture of a sad dog–the price tag from Woolworth’s, red-tagged at ninety-nine cents, was still affixed–and a legend that read: Happy are those who expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed. When I looked up at my mother and sister, they looked very amused; to this day, they still think this story of my crappy Christmas is a funny one. But it goes a long way to explaining why I buy myself everything I want, when I want it. I’ve learned not to count on anybody to make me happy, and I’ve learned that Santa–wherever he is–probably isn’t thinking of me too much.

That’s why the irony of this year’s Christmas was too obvious to ignore. When my wife asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I told her I really needed some socks and underwear. And while Santa may have sucked throughout the years, Mrs. Claus was very good to me this year. I got everything I asked for. But that paled in comparison to the best gift my wife got me.

She had brought home a Santa costume, and informed me I’d be playing Santa Claus for our granddaughter this year. I grumbled. I cursed. Could Christmas get any worse? But come Christmas Eve, I dutifully donned the outfit and played the part to a T (video of which is floating around out there on the interweb). As she sat in my lap, shyly avoiding my questions about what she wanted for Christmas, I told her what she wanted (“A BIG choo-choo!”) and her eyes grew big as saucers…especially when I handed her a big, gift-wrapped choo-choo.

She’s probably too young to ever remember this special Christmas, but that doesn’t matter. For me, it was the greatest Christmas present I had received in a long, long time. After my horrible experiences with Santa, I was able to make just one child (and a very special one at that!) truly believe in Santa Claus.

And what did my granddaughter give me for Christmas, you might ask? Well…two days later, I learned I had contracted a stomach virus from her, and my body turned into a double-ended fire hose.

There’s a strict no-return policy on gifts like that.