Growing up, Santa Claus was a central figure in my family’s Christmas celebrations. My parents embraced the magic of the season wholeheartedly, going to great lengths to make the holiday special for my siblings and me. One of the highlights was a personal visit from Santa himself.
Every Christmas Eve, following the children’s service at church, my parents would prepare a light meal and help us into our new pajamas before tucking us into bed—usually before 8 p.m. The excitement was palpable; the thought of Santa arriving with gifts made it nearly impossible to fall asleep. My mother would gently remind us that the sooner we drifted off, the sooner Santa would come, and somehow, we always managed to doze off.
A few hours later, my mother would enter our rooms, waking us from a deep slumber with urgent whispers about Santa getting ready to leave. We were instructed to listen for the sound of reindeer on the roof—a clever ruse involving my father throwing pebbles from the yard. We would hear Santa’s jolly voice calling out our names, wishing us a Merry Christmas.
With sleepy eyes, we would venture down the stairs, grasping our mother’s hand. Santa would greet us at the bottom, praise our good behavior, and hand us each a gift before he dashed off to continue his rounds. We would unwrap our presents, still in a state of wonder. We often didn’t notice my father’s absence until he returned from his yearly ice run to the convenience store, a task he never seemed to remember to prepare for in advance.
When I turned eight, I began hearing rumors from friends and classmates that Santa wasn’t real, and that the gifts actually came from our parents. So, I decided to ask my mother if there was any truth to this. I was mostly convinced she would reassure me that Santa was indeed real, considering we saw him every year. Instead, she gently explained that while Santa represented the spirit of Christmas, the man in the red suit was just a fun story. She asked me to keep this information to myself, believing that each child should discover the truth when they were ready. I honored that promise for years.
Fast forward to this year, my youngest is now 10. I had dreaded the moment he might stop believing, especially since he was in fifth grade and could face ridicule from peers if he expressed his beliefs. I suspected he might already know the truth but wasn’t sure. During a recent conversation about Christmas, I casually mentioned that Santa was more about the spirit of the season than an actual person living in the North Pole.
“Oh, okay. I know that,” he replied, quite nonchalantly.
That was simpler than I expected! I reminded him not to spoil it for his younger cousins who still believed.
“Mom, I know Santa is Grandpa,” he said, catching me off guard.
“Well, do me a favor and don’t mention it to your cousins,” I requested.
“I won’t. When is dinner?” he asked, changing the subject.
It struck me then that for my children, Santa will always be real. They see him every Christmas Eve, just as I did. While he may not reside in the North Pole, he is their grandfather who goes the extra mile to create memorable holidays. My mother was right; Santa embodies the spirit of giving, and what better legacy to pass down to future generations?
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In summary, the essence of Santa, regardless of the myth, lies in the joy of giving and family connections. By passing down these cherished traditions, we create lasting memories that enrich our lives and celebrate the true spirit of the holiday season.