As a child, is there any greater time of year than christmas? You get out of school for a couple weeks, can eat all the christmas treats and candy that your stomach desires without repercussions, and leading up to the twenty-fifth you are full of hopeful anticipation, constantly thinking about Santa’s upcoming visit. There were years I’d done some bad things, and although I was worried I might wake up christmas morning to find coal in my stocking, there was always a glimmer of hope that Santa would look past my shortcomings and give me a gift anyway. I don’t remember a year when I wasn’t lying awake in bed on christmas eve, trying desperately to fall asleep, knowing that Santa wouldn’t come if I were awake, and the excitement of it all too much to get any kind of significant sleep. The morning would finally arrive and I would be up right about six, like my body knew that it wasn’t so early that my mom would send me back to bed, and late enough that she would get up, albeit very, very slowly.
My brothers and I would wait with anticipation as my mom took her time getting ready. It seemed like hours we had to wait, but most likely it was just a couple of minutes. We had to wait until mom was down the hall with the video camera on, ready to capture the joy in our eyes as we walked into the living room to see what Santa had brought us. We grumbled and complained about all the pictures, probably one with every gift we opened, but those were the rules, and if we had to exchange some pictures for some christmas gifts, it was well worth the trade. In all my years of childhood, at least the ones I can remember, I don’t think Santa ever let me down, that is until he turned out to not exist. The magic of christmas left with the illusion of Santa Claus and although I’ve tried, nothing has ever been able to match the feeling I had all those years ago, waiting for christmas to arrive.
I’m not like a scrooge or anything, and I still love Christmas, but it’s just not the same as it used to be. I’m not saying that all joy left my life along with Santa, but it was a special kind of joy, one that I suppose can’t be replicated. I wonder if other adults feel this way. What wouldn’t you trade in to be an eight year old kid every year at christmas? It would be great to have two weeks, responsibility free, where I could eat as much junk food as I wanted, while anticipating what awesome gift a man in a suit is going to leave in my house while I’m sleeping. Adulthood in my opinion has many advantages over being a child, but unfortunately the amount of christmas spirit I have with two weeks to go, isn’t one of them.