This year was the best Christmas since my brother* took me into the attic and showed me where “Santa” was hiding the presents.
There is a magic to Christmas and it has nothing to do with getting the latest iPhone or a new aftershave or whatever this year’s cool present was. I caught a hint of it when we brought a tree into the house and start hanging lights on it and we gave the boys some decorations to hang on the lower branches [which would likely be rearranged once they went to bed] and we hoped that they wouldn’t start throwing the baubles to [or at] each other.
There is a certain look that the boys wore on Christmas morning that made me happier than any of the presents I got. It wasn’t when they came downstairs and saw the presents we had laid out for them. It wasn’t when they started playing with the kitchen that I had spent the best part of the previous night putting together.** The highlight of my Christmas morning was when the boys found the plate where we left two biscuits and a glass of milk for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer. Now there was an empty glass, a half eaten biscuit and the stump of a carrot. They didn’t even say anything but there was a certainty in their expressions. To the eyes of a three year old this was conclusive and irrefutable proof that a fat man in a red suit came to their house on a flying sleigh pulled by magical reindeer to deliver presents to them as a reward for being a good boy.
Like my sister in law said, it is worth having a kid just for that moment on Christmas morning.
*I was a late starter because it was my younger brother who brought me hunting for the Christmas stash but that was true in lots of aspects of my life.
**This story may still end up getting its own post when I finally recover from the trauma enough to write it down
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