Columba and the Wake-Up War

Seven-year-old Columba was on a mission.

A top-secret, extremely serious mission.

Every Christmas Eve for as long as she could remember, Columba had sworn she would stay awake to catch Santa Claus in the act.

Every year, her eyelids betrayed her.

"Not tonight," she told her stuffed bear, Barnaby, narrowing her eyes like a general planning a great battle. "This year, we win the Wake-Up War."

Columba turned her bedroom into a fortress of alertness.

She slid a flashlight under her pillow for emergency lighting.

She stacked her favourite comic books on the nightstand like ammunition.

She filled a glass with ice-cold water—perfect for a face splash in case of drowsiness.

For her ultimate weapon, she dug out her itchiest wool pajamas—the ones with the scratchy collar that made her squirm.

No way she would get cozy in those.

At 8:00 sharp, Mum and Dad came in for tucks and kisses.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," Mum said, smoothing Columba’s hair. "Remember, Santa only visits sleeping children."

Dad winked. "He skips the houses with wide-awake spies."

"We’ll see about that," Columba muttered as the door clicked shut.

By 9:00, she was deep into her comics, the flashlight beam dancing across exploding spaceships and daring heroes.

Wide awake.

Victory seemed certain.

At 10:00, her eyes started to sting.

Traitors.

She grabbed the glass and splashed icy water onto her cheeks.

Brrr!

The shock jolted her like a lightning bolt.

"Ha! Take that, sleep!"

By 11:00, the house had settled into the deep hush that only comes on Christmas Eve.

The old heater thump-thumped in the basement like a lazy drum.

Columba bolted upright, spine straight as a soldier.

She even pried her eyelids open with her fingers.

"Must… stay… awake," she whispered.

To pass the time, she tried counting sheep.

But these were no ordinary sheep.

They bounced across a meadow of fluffy clouds—pillowy, glowing, impossibly soft.

One sheep paused, yawned, and snuggled into a cloud like the coziest bed ever.

Columba’s head dipped.

Nod… nod…

THUNK.

Her chin smacked her chest.

She snapped upright.

"Barnaby! You’re on watch."

She propped the teddy bear against the pillows, facing the door like a loyal guard.

"If you see a red suit, squeeze my hand."

By 11:45, defeat crept in.

The itchy pajamas now felt like a warm hug.

Her eyelids weighed a ton.

"Just one second," she bargained. "I’ll rest my eyes. I won’t actually sleep."

Promise.

She closed her eyes.

…

Bright sunshine poured through the curtains.

"Wake up! It’s Christmas!" her dad shouted, launching onto the bed like a human cannonball.

Columba blinked.

The flashlight lay on the floor.

Barnaby was face-down in the blankets.

The water glass sat untouched and warm.

She had lost the war.

Again.

Downstairs, the tree sparkled.

Stockings bulged.

Only crumbs remained on the cookie plate.

Then Columba noticed something on the little table beside the tree.

A crisp white card.

Swirling red letters curled across it like they’d been written with a candy-cane pen.

Nice try, General Columba.

The itchy pajamas were a brilliant strategy—almost worked!

Get some sleep next year. You’ve earned it.

Merry Christmas!

— Love, S.

Columba read it twice.

Then she burst into giggles.

She hadn’t seen Santa.

But Santa had definitely seen her.

And somehow, that felt like the best Christmas magic of all.