December 1st has arrived. Our last, first of the year. I’m sitting at my desk in relative quite admiring the dappled sun filter through my curtains, the click-tick song of my son’s typing on the computer next to me reminds me that he is growing up. It’s his first school report he’s actually doing (mostly) by himself. I’m guiding him, but he’s got the task of putting it all together. It’s going very slow as he’s easily distracted, but for the moment he’s on task and I’m enjoying watching him. The way his hair is sticking out every which way, his knee bouncing up and down, I imagine is what is helping keep him in his seat, and the soft way he whispers the words as he types reminds me of years gone by, of nap times hidden under covers, and stories told by flashlight.
Most of the time we don’t know when our last ‘firsts’ occur, or when the last of our ‘lasts’ happen, so when we do it’s important to be cognizant of them. To take notice and appreciate these mundane simple times that will all too quickly be relegated to memory.
I’m trying really hard to be cognizant.
For instance, I think this may be Micheal’s last Christmas where he believes in Santa. He questioned me earlier about Santa, saying that in his class some kids didn’t believe. I knew this conversation was coming, at nine years old, I knew there were few Christmases-if any, left where he blindly believed. He didn’t come outright and ask me weather or not Santa was real, so I didn’t volunteer any information; I only asked if he believed.
He said he did. I’m not sure if he was humoring me, or perhaps afraid, not quite ready for the truth,not quite ready for the magic to end.
I know I’m not ready for it to be over for him just yet, so I told him Santa was real for him, as long as he believed. In my response, I know a hint of the truth can be gleamed and he’s a smart boy. When the time finally comes for me to “come clean” on Santa, I’ll be honest. I’ll tell him that Santa lives in all of us, that each Christmas people who loved him, not just his Mommy and Daddy purchased gifts for him, and gave them to him in Santa’s name because that’s what Christmas is about. To share love and to give from your heart. I want the excitement for the magic of Christmas to remain, for the spirit of love and giving to fill his heart and not disappointment in learning the truth about St. Nick. I may go a bit overboard in the magic department this Christmas, my baby boy is nine years old and I suspect these memories will remain with him well into adult hood. If I have one Christmas wish (aside from having my husband home) it’s for him to be able to look back at his childhood Christmases and remember them as being magical times filled with wonder and joy. If this is to be his last one where the magic was real, then you better believe it will be. No matter how many times I’ve got to wiggle my nose, or wave my proverbial magic wand, it will be!
Bring on the magic!
It happened. He asked. The very next year. Another milestone in our children’s lives. Not my favorite, but I manged to turn it into a positive. You can read that post here: Telling Kids the Truth about Santa
Nicole Olea’s love language is communication. She does this best using her keyboard as a freelance copywriter and editor. Creative and resilient with high-level experience in social media management, content creation, and eCommerce marketing, Nicole Olea was a professional volunteer, sharing her skills with various non-profit organizations who paid her in hugs. For the last 20 years, she’s lived a quasi-nomadic life, moving across the country and the Atlantic with her active-duty husband and their three kids. She’s awkwardly stumbling toward her goal of becoming a saint. She’s got God-sized dreams and wants you to have them too!