This is a true story.

I believed in Santa Claus until I was 12 years old. It seems incredible now, but yes, I admit it. My parents were so accomplished in perpetuating a myth in such elaborate fashion that my brother and I were outright believers, even when we were on the threshold of adolescence.

It started out innocently enough when we were small children and naturally susceptible to suggestion alone. Those were the days when many myths were perpetuated throughout the year: the Easter bunny, the tooth fairy and even the myth of the giant turkey for Thanksgiving (that one, invented purely for our amusement, was the first to be disproved). We got wise to the tooth fairy soon enough. For me, that was a good myth to dispense with—a creature with wings was not something I wanted hovering over me when I slept! The Easter bunny also went by the wayside after our menagerie of dogs got to the hidden treats in the yard one year. When we came out to the yard, we were greeted by a landscape of egg shells, half eaten chocolate bunnies and strewn colored foil. No one ever explained the carnage to us, so we operated under the assumption that the Easter Bunny itself had also been consumed in the frenzy. That was awkward--we never talked about it actually.

But these were mere trifles compared to the pageantry and stagecraft of our family Christmas. From the studied act of finding the perfect tree, to the elaborate hanging of lights, to the territorial placement of stockings to the assembly line of the holiday cards, everything was wreathed in ritual. Like a department store, this routine rolled out with the Thanksgiving leftovers and each day brought a new holiday task. By Christmas Eve, my brother and I were crawling the walls with excitement (well, perhaps holiday sugar also played a role in this).

Before going to bed on Christmas Eve, we'd set the tableau for Santa: carrots and oatmeal for the reindeer and a glass of milk and cookies for Santa. When we were very young, my parents would simply set the toys out and fill the stockings. We didn't pay attention to the small details that contribute to the onset of doubt. But as we got older and asked more questions, more work was required on my parents part to perpetuate this myth: Cookies were left half eaten, the glass of milk was partially drained, the carrot was bitten into, some ash from the fireplace was left on the floor…little details. Clearly it was credible enough to force continued suspension of disbelief as we moved from one season to the next, blissfully appeased.

As we got older, though, we demanded more substantial proof. Dad did not disappoint. We lived in a Frank Lloyd Wright type of house with a multilevel flat roof. This presented an ideal stage for Dad to stomp around at midnight and ring bells, bellowing a few errant HoHoHos that kept us firm believers. It was really quite artful now that I think on it.

However, in the final year of credibility for St. Nick, we young skeptics demanded real proof. We shared our nagging doubts with our Dad and he listened with studied concern. That fateful Christmas day, we climbed up to the roof to survey the scene, as he well knew we would. In a final hurrah to the Big Man in Red, my dad had pulled out all the stops and staged the roof perfectly: a stray jingle bell here and there, half an eaten carrot, scattered oatmeal and the pieces de resistance, a piece of animal crap that we assumed the reindeer had left. We later learned it was actually from one of our dogs.

That Dad would go to such fanciful extreme to lull skeptical minds into believing was for me a Christmas hallmark yet unmatched. Around the holidays, I always reflect back on those days when you could genuinely believe such fanciful things could happen. And I love that my parents went to such extremes to ensure we would.