I was thinking back to a few Christmases ago when Alex
was just a tiny tot, plump cheeks and all. He would refuse to go to bed
on Christmas Eve without writing a heartfelt letter to Santa. He also insisted on
leaving him a midnight snack, milk and chocolate chip cookies. I so loved his innocence back
then.
was just a tiny tot, plump cheeks and all. He would refuse to go to bed
on Christmas Eve without writing a heartfelt letter to Santa. He also insisted on
leaving him a midnight snack, milk and chocolate chip cookies. I so loved his innocence back
then.
One fateful year, he began to question the existence of Santa
and the following year, he didn’t even bother with the questions. He ceased
writing the letters altogether. The milk and cookies? He gobbled those up
himself, with zero consideration for the big bellied fellow.
and the following year, he didn’t even bother with the questions. He ceased
writing the letters altogether. The milk and cookies? He gobbled those up
himself, with zero consideration for the big bellied fellow.
Alex is at the
ripe age of thirteen now, goodness where have all the years gone? Now, when I tell him about his former Christmas Eve ritual, he
merely shrugs away the stories and disguises his embarrassment by proclaiming his manhood.
ripe age of thirteen now, goodness where have all the years gone? Now, when I tell him about his former Christmas Eve ritual, he
merely shrugs away the stories and disguises his embarrassment by proclaiming his manhood.
All I’m left with
are the memories of what once was and if Alex had a say in whether I got to
keep them, they would be gone in a Christmas minute.
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