eater.com – I believed in Santa until I was ten years old. I wasn’t an idiot — I knew that the Easter bunny was a fraud — but I believed fervently, even after discovering the truth about the tooth fairy in a Baby-Sitters Club book. I wrote two letters to Santa every year: one, a wish list in alternating red and green ink, dropped in the mailbox next to our mall’s (obviously fake) Santa; the other, a note of thanks left with a plate of cookies for him and, for his reindeer, carrot sticks.
I was working on my annual Santa letters one afternoon when my mother called me from the second floor of our Long Island colonial. I ran upstairs to find her sitting on my bed, and immediately assumed I was in some kind of trouble. “Wanna sit down?” she asked, and I plopped down next to her. “I need to tell you something,” she said. “I don’t want you to find out from your friends, and I don’t want you to be teased.”
No part of my mind anticipated what she said next: that Santa wasn’t so much a magical old man as he was just… my parents. They didn’t just deliver the presents, they nibbled the cookies and drank the milk. I was devastated, furious, and disillusioned. How could I trust my parents ever again? I wrote in my journal. Was magic NOT real? And if not, what was even exciting about Christmas? How could I possibly care about the carols, the lore, the annual outing to White Castle?
I don’t remember Christmas before White Castle, and I have no memory of White Castle before Christmas.
This is dope and honestly are the best traditions, I love reading and hearing stories like these.