This morning my 3yr old woke up before 6:30, when it was still dark outside and the first thing he said was, “Did Santa come?” Then he checked outside the front door to make sure the reindeer had found their food.
I can’t remember believing in something so magical, but there it was: that childlike wonder and belief that the bells on the door woke him up as Santa was leaving. Because there’s no chimney here, you know.
As curmudgeonly as my husband can be about some things, Santa is something we both agree on. It’s a magical tale we both tell. Our kids got gifts from us last night and this morning Santa left a stocking full of presents wished for but of course, he forgot to bring the pooper scooper.
I know he will grow out of this phase and soon enough he’ll be telling his younger brother that Santa isn’t real. But I love the magic and awe of Christmas and I’m thoroughly enjoying experiencing it through the unjaded eyes of my son.
My husband told me that when he was a kid, after he knew Santa wasn’t real, he still couldn’t figure out how his parents made the presents appear. He’d go to bed and stay up as long as he could, until 1am one year and 4am another. And yet he never caught them putting presents under the tree.
And part of me wants to say, it was Santa.