I’m not going to tell you how old I was when I found out that Santa Claus wasn’t real. It’s too embarrassing. Like, Phoebe from Friends embarrassing (remember Joey tells Phoebe that Santa Claus doesn’t exist in the episode where she hates PBS?) Yeah, I was around that old (okay, not that old. I was still a kid. But still…)
Santa was never that big of a deal at our house. We each had a stocking (and they are awesome stockings!) and we always had presents “from Santa” in them. The main presents were always from our parents, but Santa came every year and he had Chocolate Chip Cookies and milk waiting for him on the table every year. And they were always gone the next morning.
Every Christmas morning was so magical. The Christmas Tree had all the lights lit up and all the us kids would get up so early and we would sneak into the den and undo the stockings. We would wait patiently for my parents to wake up, we would bounce up and down in our seats impatiently through the prayers and lighting of the Advent candles, and then we would settle down into the routine of opening presents.
We were never allowed to open the presents all at once. It was always done one at a time, youngest to oldest. It was always really neat to watch my siblings open presents, especially the presents that I knew that they really really wanted. This slow process of opening presents taught us to be involved in the gift of experiencing other people’s joy. That was the greatest lesson I learned on those Christmas mornings.
Then one Christmas, when I was old enough to start paying attention to what was going on in the “adult world,” I was watching my mom open one of her presents from Santa in her stocking. My dad was watching her open it too, but my sibs were playing with their toys. My dad starting asking my mom questions once she got it open. He was asking her if it was what she wanted, if it was too heavy or too light, and then he said, “When I was shopping for it I wasn’t sure if this was the one you wanted or not.”
Dun, dun, dun….That’s when it clicked. Santa wasn’t real.
There was always something so magical about Christmas when I was a kid. Almost as though they were straight out of a story book. Christmases after “Santa wasn’t real” were still very special, but more grown up (for a lack of a better phrase.)
The thing I’m loving about having my own child is that some of that childhood magic is coming back and I get to be a part of it again. Though Lboy is only 18 months, I feel that enchantment coming when you experience Christmas through a child’s eyes.
|I think it’s Christmas when I’m 3 here. I just remembering loving this dress!|
|I was between 4-6 in this pic (I’m holding my lil sister.) Notice our matching dresses?|
|This is the same Christmas as the first picture. I just remember how special this dress was-I loved the lace & the buttons.|