Father Christmas

It's hard writing about Christmas when you're not a kid anymore. I wish I had scribbled things down all those years ago right after ransacking all that wrapping paper. I’d love to read those notes today. On Christmas mornings, a kid’s faith in humanity could be restored in minutes.

It was always thrilling. I don't ever remember being disappointed. We had a list. We’d share it with the Santa stand-in at the Viewmont Mall like everybody else. But we never really knew. If Santa gave you that look that said, “not so sure about the bike AND the skateboard, kid”, that was filed away. Expectations were managed. We got some, but never all. We wished. We did not demand. And we were brought up knowing that, as my Mother always put it, “millions of kids in China” wish they had our silly little problems.