Cooper was born at the end of September, so he was a very teeny-tiny, barely functioning poop-pantsed baby when he had his first Christmas. He spent most of the day eyes glazed, swatting at balls of discarded wrapping paper like a bored cat. Because of this, we felt no need to mark any of his presents as being “From Santa,” or setting out milk and cookies, or any of those other things that Santa-loving folks do. Next Christmas, he was barely a year old, so it still seemed basically pointless. Then, somewhere around his fourth Christmas, I realized that I kind of forgot about Santa Claus.

Most kids have horror stories from their youth about the time they found out that SPOILER ALERT: Santa isn’t real. There’s talk of betrayal, tears, and an emptiness that persists well into adulthood. I don’t have a story like that, because I don’t remember ever believing in Santa Claus. In fact, I specifically remember being five years old and not believing in Santa. I always grew up with the impression that Santa was a nice character that some parents taught their children about. He’s not real, but it’s also not polite to tell people that. So basically I equated Santa with Jesus very early in life. Continue reading →