I’ve come to a compromise with the holidays: I’m still not a big fan, but it is cool to experience it through my kids.
Someone once asked if I felt guilty letting the kids believe Santa exists. I thought about it for a second or two, and realized no, I don’t. If I’m okay with convincing them zombies exist and that the Krampus will come if they don’t stop fighting on Christmas Eve, I shouldn’t have any problem letting them believe a fat man in a red suit is breaking into the house and leaving gifts under a tree.
The Midget is at just the right age this year. He has no reason to disbelieve Santa yet, nor has he quite started reasoning out the details like how Santa gets in the house since we don’t have a chimney. Yet he insisted on laying out the milk and cookies for Santa himself, and he wanted us to leave a light on to make sure Santa could find them. At the end of the night he hustled his brother off to bed to make sure they’d both be asleep so Santa will come.
That innocence and sense of wonder is something to behold. It makes it easy to forget the grasping and clawing holiday crowds and the false faces they put on for the one time of year they feel obligated to be good. It’s a special thing so far behind me that I couldn’t even begin to feel what the Midget must feel when he comes downstairs in the morning and sees the pile of gifts waiting for him.
Maybe I should think about that the next time I tell him the scratchy noise out front is the monster trying to find a way into the house. :)