Growing up, the magic of Santa Claus was a cornerstone of our holiday celebrations. My parents were dedicated to making Christmas enchanting for my siblings and me, going to great lengths to ensure we experienced the wonder of the season. This included a special visit from Santa himself.
After attending our church’s early Christmas Eve service, my parents would prepare a light dinner, help us into fresh pajamas, and then tuck us into bed—all before 8 p.m. The anticipation made falling asleep nearly impossible; the thought of Santa delivering gifts was exhilarating! My mom would remind us that the sooner we slept, the sooner Santa would arrive. Somehow, we managed to drift off each year.
Late at night, she would enter our rooms and gently rouse us, urging us to hurry because Santa was on his way. She encouraged us to listen for the sound of reindeer hooves on the roof, which was actually my dad tossing pebbles from the yard. They didn’t hold back on the theatrics! We could hear Santa’s hearty voice calling out a Merry Christmas from downstairs.
With sleep still in our eyes, we would shamble down the stairs, clinging to our mom, as Santa greeted us by name, commending us for our good behavior and handing out gifts. As he dashed off to continue his deliveries, we’d dive into unwrapping our presents, still dazed by the excitement.
Amid this chaos, we rarely noticed my dad’s absence until he returned from his last-minute dash to the convenience store, inevitably in search of ice—a Christmas staple we never seemed to have enough of. You’d think he would learn to stock up in advance!
At the age of 8, I began to hear whispers from friends at school who claimed Santa was just a myth, that it was really our parents buying the presents. I decided to confide in my mom about this misinformation and asked her directly if Santa was real. I was nearly certain she would confirm his existence, given the evidence of his visits each year.
In a gentle, loving manner, my mom explained that while Santa embodies the spirit of Christmas, the man in the red suit was merely a cherished story. She asked me to keep this revelation to myself, believing that every child should discover the truth on their own terms. That promise has stuck with me ever since.
Fast forward to this year. My youngest son, Jake, is now 10, and I dreaded the day he might no longer believe in Santa. I worried that being in the fifth grade would expose him to peer pressure about Santa’s reality. However, he seemed in no hurry to voice any doubts.
Recently, while discussing holiday traditions and our annual visit from Santa, I casually mentioned that the jolly figure is more of a symbol of the season than a literal person living at the North Pole. To my surprise, he responded, “Oh, okay. I know that.”
That was simpler than I expected. I reminded him to keep this knowledge to himself, especially from his younger cousins, who still believed.
“Mom, I know Santa is Grandpa,” he said nonchalantly.
“Oh, you do?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, moving on to more pressing matters like what was for dinner.
In that moment, I realized that for my children, Santa will always be real. He may not live in the North Pole, but he is their grandfather, who lovingly dresses up each year to create that magic. My mom was right: Santa embodies the spirit of giving, and what better legacy could we pass down to our children and grandchildren?
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In summary, the essence of Santa is not just about the gifts but the love and spirit of giving that is passed through generations.