I’m Santa Claus. Not one of Santa’s “helpers,” not an elf, not a toy builder. What’s that you say? Santa lives at the North Pole, while I live in Illinois? Doesn’t matter.
I know that someone delivers toys to good little girls and boys worldwide. Sounds exhausting to me. When I slip my red suit on, I’m thankful that I don’t have to freeze my derriere off flying around the world, let alone handling the labor-management negotiations with all those elves and keeping track of the reindeers’ medical records at the vet’s office since no one wants to hear about late deliveries due to a sick reindeer. Sounds like a lot of work. No thank you.
But I know I’m Santa. White hair, check. White beard, check. Red suit and hat plus black boots? You guessed it. It’s all in place. Every time I slip them on, I become more firmly convinced that I am the true Santa Claus. 
When I first slipped on the red suit, in the ‘80s, I didn’t have white hair or a beard, so those had to be added. I visited a number of nursing homes. Since I was new to being Santa, I had no idea what to expect. I had no presents to bring, just an image from the senior citizens’ past. A hearty Ho! Ho! Ho! and a big hug all around. It turned out to be one of the most rewarding days of my life, even if it did leave me with a tear in my eye.
For whatever reason, I didn’t don the suit again until the past dozen years. I’ll blame job pressures, kids, mortgages, marriage, more marriage and still more marriage for the interruptions.
I moved to a Del Webb community after I retired, and they needed a Santa to provide a lap for the hundreds of grandchildren to sit on while explaining to Kris Kringle that they had been good and unfailingly obeyed their parents, thus deserving the extensive list of toys they’d prepared.
Some years I managed to find other opportunities to ply the Santa trade, others not. But I always looked for someone who was in need of a “right jolly old elf.” Have suit, will travel.
All I can tell you is that when I look into the eyes of a small child, just as when I looked into the eyes of octogenarians so many years ago, I know I am Santa to them, if just for a moment I can cause their hearts to skip a beat, cause the trepidation associated with sitting on Santa’s lap, give the children small presents and stoke their hopes for bigger ones on Christmas Eve.
Yes, my friend, even if only for an afternoon or an evening, I am most assuredly Santa.