The Year I Lost My Childhood
We stayed up all night waiting for Santa to arrive. We hoped to catch a glimpse of the magical elf and his reindeer on his way through our town.
As the time ticked away, my brother, sister and I (there were two who were born a few years later) would share our wishes for whatever was on our list we mailed to Santa earlier that month. The time seemed to move so slowly.
We all began to yawn, but my sister was usually the first to nod off and I carried her to her bed. It was now my brother and I who were peering out the window to see if we could see the silhouette of Santa and his sleigh against the night sky.
More yawns. More nodding off. Our parents would warn us that if Santa were to fly by and realize we were awake, he would go to another home first. My brother was the next to make his way to his bedroom.
I usually fought sleep the hardest. Now it was only me (and my parents) and we would talk of all kinds of things until I could no longer keep my eyes open. My mother told me I should go to bed since I was falling asleep.
"Will you wake me when Santa arrives?"
She answered, "Yes. Now go to bed."
The next morning all the stockings were filled, and there were toys under the tree and after a quick inquiry as to why they hadn't woken me when Santa arrived, it was soon forgotten as I watched my sister and brother gleefully empty their stockings. It was always my favorite part of Christmas morning.
But as I emptied my own, I feigned surprise. I smiled and no one ever knew that Christmas had lost its charm.
It was Christmas 1964 and at nine-years-old I wanted to so badly to stay awake all night to see Santa and his reindeer, and I wanted my parents to wake me when he got there.
That was the year that I carried the burden of having been told by a teacher that there was no Santa Claus. That was also the year that I realized she was the one who was telling me the truth.
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Image Credit » https://pixabay.com/en/santa-old-fashioned-christmas-claus-1058671/ by jill111