As a parent to a seven and four year old the pressure to play Santa Clause weighed heavy on me this year. I have created this illusion in my head that my kids had to have the best Christmas ever, I'm not sure if it’s because I started the season in a piss poor mood so I felt I needed to make sure I ended the season with shits and giggles.
I didn't want to fail them.
I wanted to make sure that we created a Christmas miracle, and it would be as magical as a Criss Angel walking on water, shouldn’t that be Jesus? But wait, that can't happen cause he wasn't born yet.
Shit, I'm getting all confused.
You see, the seven year old believes in Santa with all his heart, he was beyond excited, counting down the days, looking for the Elf on the Shelf daily, explaining to the four year old that he needed to behave or he'll get coal, loving every Christmas special.
This boy was so delicious, so excited for Christmas that I started to panic.
What if I screwed up? I mean, I'm already screwing up, I’m sure he'll be running to therapy at the age of 25 but I didn't need "Mom screwed up Christmas at the age of seven" added to his already long list.
Two days out with his list in my hand, the pressure to make this the best Christmas EVER started to wane, I realized we had almost everything covered, everything except the puppy, I couldn't make it that much of a Christmas miracle... give me a break people!
But it wasn’t until Christmas Eve when the seven year old told me that he was going to write a note to Santa thanking him for all the gifts that I realized that it doesn’t matter what we get them, the true reason for the season is being grateful for what we have, and having love in our hearts.
And yes, it took a seven year old to help me with that. Go figure.
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