When I think back to my childhood, the figure of Santa Claus looms large in my family’s holiday celebrations. My parents truly embraced the enchantment of the season, going to great lengths to craft magical experiences for my two brothers and me. One of the highlights was an annual visit from Santa himself.
Every Christmas Eve, after attending an early church service, my parents would prepare a light dinner and ensure we were dressed in our fresh new pajamas before tucking us into bed—often before 8 p.m. The anticipation was palpable; falling asleep felt nearly impossible as we eagerly awaited Santa’s arrival. My mom would remind us that the quicker we dozed off, the sooner Santa would come to visit. Somehow, we always managed to drift off despite our excitement.
In the wee hours of the night, my mom would burst into our rooms, urging us to wake up because Santa was on his way. She would tell us to listen for the sounds of reindeer on the roof (which, as we later discovered, was actually our dad tossing pebbles). We would hear Santa’s booming voice from downstairs, wishing us a Merry Christmas.
With bleary eyes, we would shuffle down the stairs, gripping our mother’s hand as Santa greeted us by name, praised our good behavior over the past year, and handed us each a gift. Once he departed to finish his rounds, we would unwrap our presents, still in a daze from the sheer excitement.
In the midst of this holiday rush, we hardly noticed that our dad was missing until he reappeared after a dash to the 24-hour convenience store for ice—a Christmas staple we somehow always ran low on. You’d think he’d learn to stock up ahead of time!
At eight years old, I began to hear whispers from classmates that Santa wasn’t real, that it was our parents who bought the gifts. Concerned for their misguided beliefs, I confided in my mom and asked her to clarify if Santa was indeed real. I was almost certain she would affirm his existence, given our family’s tradition of seeing him every year.
With kindness, my mom explained that while Santa embodies the spirit of Christmas, the man in the red suit was merely a fun story. She asked me to keep this revelation a secret from my younger siblings and other children, believing each one should discover the truth in their own time. This promise has stayed with me all these years.
Now, as I face the same crossroads with my youngest son, who is now 10, I find myself dreading the moment he might fully embrace the idea that Santa isn’t real. I’ve worried that, being in the fifth grade, he might face teasing from peers if he openly expressed his belief. Yet, he hasn’t rushed to share his thoughts on the matter.
Recently, while talking about the holidays and our Christmas Eve tradition of seeing Santa (a role my father has joyfully maintained for 16 years since my eldest son’s first Christmas), I casually mentioned that Santa is really the spirit of the season rather than a North Pole resident. To my surprise, he casually replied, “Oh, okay. I know that.”
I reminded him to keep this knowledge between us, especially to protect his younger cousins, who are still firm believers in Santa. “Mom, I know Santa is Grandpa,” he responded without hesitation. “Oh, you do?” I asked. “Yes.”
“Promise me you won’t say anything to your cousins,” I urged. “I won’t. When’s dinner?” he replied, changing the subject.
At that moment, I realized that, for my children, Santa will always be real. They see him each Christmas Eve, just as I did. He may not reside in the North Pole with Mrs. Claus, but he is their grandfather, who takes the time to dress up each year, with my grandmother helping him prepare to make our holiday even more special. My mother was right: Santa represents the spirit of giving, and what better legacy could we leave for our children and grandchildren?
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In summary, the essence of Santa transcends the myth; it embodies the love and spirit of family traditions. As long as we keep that spirit alive, Santa will forever be a cherished part of our celebrations.
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