I love Santa Claus. And I’m not just saying that to get great presents, really. (Although, hope you remember that, Santa, if it helps). I love the tradition, and now that I’m the one who’s spending his Christmas Eve thinking about Santa Claus plans, making phone calls to friends to see if anyone would be ready to don the red suit and get inside the character, I actually like it even more.

My Santa is not the one that gets in through the chimney in the night. My Santa is the one who walks in to see if there are any nice children in the house, and then leaves his big sack of presents to us.

Although, it’s not that straightforward. It’s almost never been that straightforward.

Over the years, Santa has taken many shapes and forms when delivering the Xmas presents to us. One year, when Santa couldn’t make it, or was busy elsewhere, he send Mrs Claus to our house. She was really nice. I remember it well because she said that especially Mom had been nice that year, and then was a little disappointed when Mom wasn’t there just then.

He’s also changed as a man. When I was a kid, getting Xmas present wasn’t a slam dunk, at all. There was always the chance that had I not been nice that year, Santa wouldn’t just skip our house on his journey, but, instead, he’d make a stop and leave me with twigs.

Maybe that’s why I was never too concerned about having just missed Santa’s visit. Often, Santa had just been at the door to leave the presents, and when I ran to the door – or, when Dad did – there were just bags of presents waiting for him.

And while we were waiting for him, we’d often get in the car and drive around our neighborhood, and around downtown Helsinki, looking for Santa, hoping to get a glimpse of him – and admiring the city.

When I was 16, Santa hadn’t paid a visit for years, and I figured it wouldn’t see him anymore, as I was almost a grown-up and all. We sat at the dinner table when we heard weird noise at the door. Well, the noise was just regular knocking, but it was weird because Dad, Mom, and I – even our dog – were all around the dinner table.

Dad sprinted to the door, and yelled back excitedly: “It’s Santa!”

And there he was, a stocky man in a red suit, with a 195-centimeter tall elf standing behind him. Dad invited them in. I recognized the elf, it was one of the drivers at Dad’s store, but I had no idea who the Santa was. But there he was, with a sack full of presents. He got in, sat down in the rocking chair, and started to hand our presents. To me, to Mom, to Dad, to me, to me, to me.

When he was done, but before I had started to open any of the presents, he lifted his hood, and took off his beard, and asked to get a cup of coffee.

And then I recognized him. It was Hartikainen, one of the other drivers at Dad’s store. And he was laughing a good belly laugh. So did Dad, who had been studying my every expression the whole time, enjoying his little surprise.

The elf retired, but the same Santa came around our house the next year as well, and the year after that, even when I had moved out of the house and gone to college, and only came back for Xmas.

This year, I hear that Santa may not have time to get in for a cup of coffee. I hear he may just be leaving something at the door, before running to the next place.

I think I may have to organize a Santa Watch with Son and Daughter, and Cousins. Maybe go out with flashlights, maybe find a clue of his route, and who knows, maybe we’ll see a glimpse of him somewhere. That, too, is exciting.