Santa Claus wasn’t always Santa.

One magical night in 1762 Plymouth, a very pregnant woman was on her way home from her weekly sewing circle. Humming to herself as she walked through the woods, she touched her stomach, shifted and cleared her throat. Darn indigestion. As she started back on her walk, a shiver racked her body and she grabbed her stomach again. Oh. Maybe this is more than just anstomach…

An hour later, as she lays alone in a bed of leaves on the edge of her property, just 30 yards from her home, sweating and grunting, she begins her final push of labor.

A loud CRACK and BOOM turns her grimacing face skyward. A white hot light streaks across the sky right above her as she groans and yells and pushes her baby into the world. Trailing particles from the shooting star glisten and tinkle down upon the new mother and her baby, christening them both in a shiny, happy magic dust that instantly transforms them with a sweet glow of joy.

As the mother’s pain magically dissipates, she inspects her newborn son. Perfect. He gurgles with laughter as he looks up into his mother’s eyes. “Kris. You most assuredly look to be a Kris. Young Master Kris Kringle.” She brings his tiny, perfectly round pink face to hers. As they touch noses, a warm white inner glow grows and emits from them both, a happy energy beams out in waves.

As a wave hits the house, the door opens and the father quizzically squints into the darkness. The glow of mother and child catches his eye. He bounds down from the porch and runs to them, the last particles of magic dust fading out on the new mother and son before he reaches them.