When I was six years old, I stopped believing in Santa. It was Christmas morning when I lost my faith in jolly ol' St. Nick. I wasn't upset - I knew that my brother & some of my friends had stopped believing, but I never thought that I would stop until I woke up Christmas morning with proof.
"Bridget, can you run up to my room & grab the clover bag, please?
"Yes, Mommy."
The last days of my childish innocence are numbered.
I got upstairs to my parents' bedroom. Through the door I could see a million bags! How was I supposed to locate one specific bag?!
"No peaking up there!"
"I'm not! But I can't find a Clover bag, Mommy!"
"Look next to my trunk!"
Mom told me not to peak, but what's wrong with peaking? Mom's not Santa - she doesn't have all my Christmas presents - I wonder if Santa got my letter? I hope I get everything I asked for - What's in this bag? ELMO! - "Did you find it?"
"I found it!"
"Be careful coming down the stairs, please!"
"Yes, Mommy!"
"Thank you! Mommy's little elf! Would you like to help me wrap some presents for your cousins?"
"Okay. Mommy, did Santa get my letter?"
"Yes he did. We need to make sure we leave cookies out for Santa when he leaves presents under the tree."
"What kinda cookies?"
"Whatever kind you want to make for Santa, honey."
Christmas morning came at last. Michael came into my room early.
"Can we go wake up Mom & Dad now?"
"Not yet. Stay in bed a little longer."
"Okay..."
*To be continued*
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