I remember. I remember the magical feeling of jumping in bed the night before Christmas with anticipation, not being able to sleep. There was always a kind of stillness that night, a sense of peace. I remember the excitement of waking up at first light knowing the time had finally arrived. I remember the rush, the exhilaration of running down the stairs in my pajamas. Milk and cookies, vanished, replaced with perfectly wrapped gifts. Gifts brought from Santa.

Spoiler Alert Ahead:

I remember. I remember the Christmas I realized Santa wasn't real. Sure, in the back of my young mind I knew. The guy at the mall wasn't the same from year to year. One year he was black, I called him Santa-Tan. Plus, the logistics of hitting every house of every good kid in the world in one night? And don't think for a second Santa gave Phil Johnson a new bike and skateboard, that kid was pure evil.
Confirmation came one afternoon before Christmas; I was snooping around the house. I snuck into the spare bedroom and shut the door. I was drawn over to the bed, looked under, and there they were. To Christopher, From Santa.

The disappointment was real. I think I cried. Being explained that Sana was not real, he never was. It was the moment I crossed from the innocence of a child to the cold, harsh Santa-less world of being an adult.

So with that, I'm in a moral debate. My two-year-old daughter is at that age. She's cognoscente enough to enjoy Christmas. She's at the point where we could start the trail of lies that will no doubt bring her joy, happiness, and excitement but ultimately lead to shock, sadness, and betrayal. Part of me wants to take credit for all the presents, a kina of Santa-Dad. And why not, I'm the one who bought them.
Has anyone reading this decided not to tell their child or children about Santa. Please leave a comment and let me know.

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