If You Don’t Believe, You Don’t Receive

Mom-ing Unfiltered: Finding Magic in the Madness of Motherhood

By Alycia Calderin

I’m 38 years old, married, raising three children, running businesses, paying bills and generally functioning as a responsible adult. And I still believe in Santa Claus.

At least, that’s my official position, and I have no intention of changing it. My mother set a simple rule when I was little: “If you don’t believe, you don’t receive.” I’ve made it 38 years without challenging that policy, and I’m not about to start now. My mother still gives me presents from Santa, and frankly, I’d hate to ruin a good thing.

I’ve carried this deeply respected family policy into my own home. Do Brooklyn, Sofi and Mikey still believe? That’s between them and whatever group chat they’re discussing it in. They haven’t informed me otherwise, and I appreciate their discretion. Santa is alive and well, his delivery schedule is unchanged, and everyone in this house knows to keep quiet if they’d like to stay on the receiving end. It’s one of the few household policies nobody argues with, which, if you’ve ever raised teenagers, is a Christmas miracle in itself.

Santa isn’t the only tradition I take seriously. I do not travel on Christmas morning. Not sometimes. Not if it’s convenient. Not because somebody decided to host breakfast at 8 a.m. and thinks we can just bring the presents. My extended family has accepted this, or at least stopped negotiating, which is close enough.

On Dec. 25, my children wake up in their own beds and open their presents under their own tree. I’m not loading three kids and half of Santa’s workshop into a car to celebrate somewhere else. Santa knows our address. Let’s not confuse the man.

Miguel and I have blended two cultures’ worth of traditions into something all our own. He’s Puerto Rican, so Christmas Eve is a whole event: pernil, coquito, “Feliz Navidad” loud enough for the neighbors to learn the lyrics, and enough food to feed an extra family of 12. Christmas morning is my territory. Somewhere in between, there’s a tree that develops its annual “gangsta lean” and two adults who love Christmas enough to do it all again every year. Even the ridiculous parts.

This year I’m more nostalgic than usual. Brooklyn is a senior; by next Christmas, she’ll officially be an adult. Sofi is 14, and she’s not nearly as far behind her sister as I’d like to believe. And Mikey, my baby, is getting dangerously close to being a teenager.

There was a time when Christmas morning meant little feet running down the hallway and toys that required 17 batteries we always forgot to buy. Now the wish lists come with links, sizes and very specific instructions. Apparently Santa needs a spreadsheet and a working knowledge of TikTok. Nobody needs help opening presents anymore, and nobody wakes me up at an hour that should still legally count as the middle of the night. I should probably be grateful for that last one.

But my kids still show up for the traditions. They still want Christmas morning at home. They still play along with Santa, and I don’t take that for granted. So I’m holding on a little tighter to the little things:

•     The Christmas music.

•     The laughter.

•     The arguments over absolutely nothing.

•     The wrapping paper everywhere.

•     All three of my children under one roof, even if somebody is getting on my last nerve before breakfast.

One day, they’ll have homes and traditions of their own. Maybe they’ll celebrate Christmas Eve with pernil and coquito. Maybe they’ll insist on waking up in their own homes on Christmas morning, and I’ll have nobody to blame but myself.

Here’s the part that’s been getting me. When they were little, I kept Christmas magical for them. Now, whether they realize it or not, they’re keeping a little of it magical for me. The magic doesn’t disappear when children grow up. It just changes hands.

Someday, I hope to be the grandmother putting presents from Santa under the tree for grown adults who know better than to question the arrangement. Maybe my children will tell their kids what their Nana told me all those years ago: “If you don’t believe, you don’t receive.”

So no, we don’t discuss whether Santa is real in this house. We don’t need to. He’s still coming. My mother is still giving me presents from him. And for another Christmas, all three of my children will be home. That’s more than enough magic for me.