Today in my teenage angst, I continue to marvel that I never believed in Santa.
People don't believe me when I tell them that. But here's the scientific truth. Santa wasn't introduced to me at a young enough age that I would have identified his image with Christmas. Because of this, by the time I was at the point of understanding concrete concepts, I knew that it was not a good nature but none the less obese man who brought the excitement of Christmas morning, but my parents. Furthermore, most of the children shoved into mall-santa's arms have so much stranger anxiety, there is zero joy to be found in the act. It's just terrifying.
Thank goodness I say, for my santa-less upbringing. Our household tradition is one of great strength. We wake up when we wake up. It usually ends up being earlier than anyone has planned. We drink coffee, we open our stockings. We make and eat breakfast. Then we gather, turn on some christmas music and read the story of Christ's birth; first from the Gospel of Matthew, and then from the Gospel of Luke. My father always reads. Last year because of his thyroid surgery he couldn't read because he couldn't speak. It was one of the saddest things ever. My parents cried a lot that day. Beth and I are apparently stone.
I wrote on Christmas three years ago and every year I go back to that post and its truth is confirmed for me. Have a look. Also take a look at Nova's first post on Scary Santa Saturday. It is as hilarious as it is terrifying. Another reason I'm relieved I was never introduced to Santa.