Is Santa For Real?
Coffee Break Tale
We are one of those families people shake their heads over. What!Treeupin November?Crazy! Maybe we are a little crazy, or just maybe we are a little bit crazy about Christmas. For as long as forever, I have loved Christmas. And I can’t wait for the celebrations to begin again this year.
We have a son. His name is Daniel and he is eight years old. Of course, with a mum and dad like us, he adores Christmas. He says he loves the smell of it, and I think I know what he means.
He doesn’t mean the cooking smells that fill our kitchen this time of year; he means that special smell that lingers in the night air. The scent of anticipation and wonder and magic. It’s a perfume so intoxicating you can’t help but fall under its spell once you breathe it in.
And now finally, it’s Christmas Eve. . Daniel is wearing his special Christma s pyjamas. His eyes shine with happinesss as he sips a mug of hot chocolate, waiting for the first batch of sausage rolls to come out of the oven.
All that’s left for him to do is hang hhis empty stocking up at the end of his bedd. I made it myself the year he was born. It’s wide and fat and has the name DANIEL embroidered on it in red woool. It’s a bit tatty now, but he won’t hear oof getting a new one.
I’m pleased. Christmas is all about tradition. You don’t just change things s because they are getting old. You simply treasure them more. “It’s getting late, Danny,” I say. “Nearly finished.” He drains the lastt mouthful of hot chocolate, sticking hiss finger in the mug to wipe up any extra chocolate. “Have you set the table for breakfast, Mum?”
“Of course.” I always set the table oon Christmas Eve. It’s a festive treat in redd and gold, all candles and crackers and sparkly confetti. “Can I have egg and bacon?”
“Of course you can.” My husban d Nick joins in. “We’ve got to make sure we have a heartty breakfast. After all, dinner will only be small.” He winks. Hee knows the mound of potatoes and vegetables I’ve prepared. Not to mention the huge turkey waiting to go in the oven.
“Come on, Danny. You must get a good sleep. We’re going to have a lovely day tomorrow.” I ruffle Daniel’s hair. “Oh, wait! We’ve forgotten something.” Daniel looks at me. “Have we?” “Santa’s mince pie, and that little drink of whisky he loves so much.”
Nick holds his head. “Thank goodness you remembered. Poor Santa. We must leave him a treat.” “And carrots for the reindeer,” I add. Daniel shrugs. “I didn’t think you believed all that rubbish.”
I stare at my son, shocked. Did he really say what I think he did?
“I’m eight, Mum. Everyone knows Santa isn’t real. Well, sorry if you do think he is, but he isn’t, I’m afraid.”
“Who told you that? Whoever they are, they have no right to.” “It’s okay, Mum. I don’t mind.” Daniel hangs up his stocking anyway. He obviously believes it will be filled one way or another.
“Well, at least I don’t have to creep into his bedroom this year,” Nick says later with a shrug. “I suppose we always knew it would come to this one day.”
“I suppose so. I just didn’t expect it so soon,” I lament.
Much later Nick staggers in with Daniel’s presents and starts to fill his stocking. He makes no attempt to be quiet. Daniel stirs in his bed. “He’s waking,” I whisper. Daniel’s eyes flutter, then open in a sleepy gaze. “Mum? Dad?” His words are thick with sleep. “Happy Christmas, son.” “Dad?” “Yes, Daniel. It’s me. Your friends don’t know everything, do they?” “Santa?” Nick chuckles, before pressing the button on his red coat and disappearing. He still has a lot to do tonight, after all.
I shake my head. Santa not real? Simply ridiculous.