As a young five year old, I had an endless love and appreciation for christmas. Who doesn’t love free toys and candy canes? I still do love it. The idea of Santa coming down the chimney that night excited me and my sister. We would try to stay up late together and listen for the sound of reindeer stomping on our roof.

Every christmas was a happy one until my dad ruined it. It all started as we ran down the stairs in anticipation to see what santa had gotten us. My sister and I tear apart our stockings looking at our trinkets and wait for our family to arrive so we could open the presents under the tree.

In the midst of waiting, my sister realized the mistake my parents had made. In the past, they would leave presents unwrapped by the fireplace. This year they were all wrapped. They still said “From: Santa” on them but she would not except that. “Santa didn’t come!” she screamed. I didn’t really know the difference so I just chilled. She was bawling her eyes out like the ungrateful nugget she was.

It got to the point where my dad got so mad that he just screamed “Santa isn’t real! Ok?” The crying got louder, when I began to get upset. You can’t tell a kindergartener and a third grader their idol is just a fake.

There was no obese pale man in a red suit with a fluffy beard coming down our chimney. Reindeer can’t fly. Elves probably aren’t real (still holding out hope for this one). But Christmas wasn’t ruined. I still got candy and toys and I had so much fun ruining the lives of my peers by telling them “Santa isn’t real.”