“Santa’s Watching” was a dead-stop phrase thrown down year-round with the power to stop nefarious marshmallow-hoarding of Lucky Charms. The Naughty List was real, and I wanted toys.

Compliance was a struggle for me; I was hardwired to push back and ask why. By December, though, it was game on. I put in hard hours of shutting up, and even brushing my back teeth, for the A#1 most wanted thing on my list: a horse. In third grade, I was pretty sure I had things on lock when Steve McCormick — dream crusher — said, “Santa isn’t real; it’s your parents.”

My spoonful of chilled peaches dripped on my lunch tray. “He is real,” I said, picturing colorfully wrapped gifts.

“That’s your parents,” Steve said, leaning in, his bright blue eyes brimming with the confidence of a future principal. “It’s a scam,” he said and headed out to play dodgeball.

The walk home was a hazy daze of winter. My ego kicked in, and I tallied evidence of Santa’s validity: half-eaten cookies, bits of “chewed” carrots on the back lawn, reindeer prints on the roof, 100% satisfaction rate. It didn’t add up. No elves? Last year, Santa delivered an Easy-Bake Oven, a Holly Hobby puzzle, and the moon boots on my feet (bread bags not included). My parents didn’t have that much loot.

Anxiety tipped into action. The stakes were high; I had to know the truth. It was time to risk it for the biscuit and break the cardinal rule of the holidays: I marched home to snoop.

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Mordor

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I walked in the cellar, passing tangy onions, earthy potatoes and shelves of canned food. Each step was amplified by the absence of voices. I dropped my stuff and climbed the arthritic stairs to the no-go zone: my parents bedroom.

Their bedroom threshold was the strict line of demarcation. Interruptions with trivial questions like, “Do I need stitches?” or “Is my arm supposed to go this way?” were sternly discouraged. Band-aids and peroxide were under the sink, so staunch the bleeding or wait for a ride to the ER.

I slowly opened the door, blasted with a whoosh of frosty air, the windowpanes glazed with ice. I held my breath, compounded by the fear of trespassing and truth. I peered under the bed. Dust bunnies. Phew. Every cell in my body exhaled. Then a red-striped bag waved from behind the dresser.

Silent socks slid along the hardwood floor; one brave finger pulled the bag open. Stretch Armstrong stared back in a white box under red script: The Incredible Stretching Figure! Stretch was the first thing on my brother’s list. Time stopped. The room tilted. My knees went weak. Reality shook me back when a car door slammed. I stumbled downstairs and snapped on “The Jetsons.”

Numbed by existential crisis, I examined the duplicity of our decorations and holiday carols repeating the mantra, “The Incredible Stretching Figure!” My snooping wiggled and festered into full-blown guilt; all it got me was a truth gut punch and imaginary coal in my stocking.

Christmas morning was not a four a.m. frenzied, paper-flying free-for-all. We woke up, dressed up and showed up at 7 a.m. Mass at St. Bernards Church. Our presents could wait because, “It’s not your birthday, is it?”

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Control contracts

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God’s control came first in my life, delivered via the most published book in history, the Bible. Interpreted by priests, pastors, parents and Sunday school teachers, the leverage was simple: be ‘good,’ don’t question, go to heaven, or fall into the damnation of hell. No brainer.

Santa Claus offered a softer version with similar torque, swapping the threat of punishment for the promise of presents: be good, get gifts.

In the 18th century, Jeremy Bentham designed the Panopticon prison — an elegant solution using the possibility of observation to incentivize inmates into self-correction.

It turns out Santa’s watchful eye was only the prototype for a lifetime of subtle control contracts in disguise. At home, to-do lists and manners come with guilt tags. At work, deadlines, performance reviews and email chains make us our own warden. Friends, too — who replies to a text, who ghosts a “crunch topic,” who visits more. We learned to behave for reward of praise, advancement and inclusion; self-policing works way better than a lumpy stocking.

After church, we made breakfast and finally got to our presents, one by one. When my brother opened Stretch Armstrong, he said, “Wow! Thanks, Santa!” and gave me a truthful side wink. Sadness suspended, and I joined a control group of those embracing suspension of disbelief to enjoy the magic of the season.