My favorite part of the year never seemed to come fast enough. Through seemingly endless summer nights, breezy autumn days and dull school hours, I looked forward to one thing and one thing alone: Christmas.
Nothing seemed to fill my heart with joy as much as the brightly wrapped presents sitting under the tree, and the excitement of knowing Santa Claus watched my every move. The Naughty or Nice list constantly hung over my head. With every decision I made, I thought carefully about how it would affect my place on the list. I did not want a lump of coal in my stocking.
Everything about the holiday had me completely captivated. Twinkling lights started to bring life to the dreary neighborhood streets. Besides a blanket of snow on the ground, nothing could have been more perfect. But this is Texas and snowfall doesn’t happen very often. On the year that it did, my Christmas turned out to be anything but perfect.
It was Christmas Eve in 2006, the entire family was packed into my grandma’s house, and the sound of laughter could be heard. We were all gathered around the lit up Christmas tree waiting not-so-patiently for our gifts. The youngest got their gifts first. Once all the little ones opened their presents, each of the older kids (including myself) got one big gift from my grandparents. After that, my cousin, Emily, and I sat there collecting all of the trash and putting any stray bows that we could find in our hair. With as much fun as we were having, neither of us could wait to throw on our pajamas and pretend to be asleep so that Santa could make his way down our chimney. When the time finally came, our happiness was almost tangible. We placed exactly 3 chocolate chip cookies on a plate (no more, no less) and filled a glass full of milk. Oh and we could never forget the carrots. Rudolph needed some nourishment after his journey too.
Once the carrots and cookies were very much visible, my mom tucked me into bed and turned out the lights. For hours I fought sleep, determined to see the notorious Saint Nick for myself. After the longest two hours of my life, I heard soft noises coming from the kitchen and living room. I woke my cousin up and both of us crept out of the room down the dark hallway. I could faintly make out the sound of someone rustling the Christmas tree, which just about sent me over the edge. Peeking around the corner I couldn’t believe what I saw. There on the floor sat my mom and my aunt, carefully placing the wrapped boxes. My heart sank into my stomach and unshed tears began to pool in the corners of my eyes. For once, I wasn’t so happy that I had finally caught Santa in the act.
It occurred to me that I should have known. I should have been able to put all the signs together, especially after the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny were proven to be nothing but stories. But as the naive child that I was, I refused to believe that something so magical was not even real.
Over the years, I’ve come to the conclusion that finding out that my parents played Santa made me grow up too fast. I lost faith in all the little things that made life fun. Realizing this made me ask myself: Is telling your kids that there is a Santa Claus really right? As I get older, I notice that every year I am a little less enthusiastic than I was the year before. Even if Santa is a thing of the past, I believe it is very important to hold on to your childhood for as long as possible. Growing up hasn’t been near as fun as I thought it would be.
