I remember vividly the day I finally realized there was no Santa Claus. I don't remember the circumstances leading up to the discovery but I'm sure it was probably a series of little things. I do remember coming downstairs early one Christmas morning and asking my mother if I was right that there really isn't a Santa Claus. She must have decided that I was old enough to learn the truth and told me that yes, I was right. I was happy at the time because I felt grown up and would be able to join my older sister and brother in keeping the secret safe from my younger siblings. It wasn't until we were looking forward to Christmas the next year that I realized what I had lost.
As I watched my sisters and brother anticipating the arrival of Santa, I felt estranged from them and from all of the joy and excitement of Christmas. It wasn't the thought of receiving presents under the tree that kept Christmas so joyous and magical; it was the thought of Santa Claus coming to our house in the middle of the night and leaving us gifts that only he knew we wanted. Without that magic and mystery Christmas seemed kind of flat and uneventful. Thinking about the birth of baby Jesus as the real reason for being joyful didn't impress me either. I guess even as a child I wasn't really a religious person; Santa was more exciting and wonderful than Jesus could ever be.
It wasn't until my husband and I had a child of our own that I was able to recover some of that feeling. Telling her the story of Santa Claus and seeing her excitement at Christmas made even the fact that she would someday feel the loss that I had felt worth the price. And she has now repeated the whole process with her son, and I know she is dreading the day when he too will suffer the loss of Santa Claus.
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