I put it off as long as possible. Really, if it were up to me, I would have never had this conversation. Some things should be discovered organically. Like stubbing your toe on a hidden rock. But your dad got to explain S-E-X, so fair is fair. We had just read The Night Before Christmas. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity than this. I gave you a cryptic explanation, circling the subject of Santa ever so remotely. Looking back, no normal person could ever understand what I said, yet I hoped you’d spare me and get it. To test you, I probed, “do you understand? To which you replied, ”Yes, the spirit of Christmas lives in all of us.” Sigh. I started over, diving right in this time, and trying to be more blunt. Looking at your face, I knew I had driven the point home. Like a dagger in the heart. Oh those teary eyes of yours. It was painful. Even worse was watching the series of realizations creep over your face.
“The presents?” you asked.
“Me and dad,” I said.
I smiled sadly.
“Santa didn't drink the milk?”
“What did you do with it?”
“I put it back in the refrigerator for your breakfast of course.” (A new low in parenting.)
Then I had an idea.
“Do you still want to believe?” I asked.
Yes, you nodded. You did want to believe.
“Well then. You can still believe if you want to.” I said.
Still you believe. And so do I.
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