The end of the world has come and gone, and thank God the Doctor saved us again. I need only make it through Christmas without going on a rampage, and alienating my entire family, and things can get back to normal; or as normal as my life ever gets. Thanks to online shopping, I've avoided what I hate most about the Holiday Season, and have only had to deal with the incessant nagging and complaining of my "loved ones" about plans, dinners, and what to do on Christmas morning.
My son, who is now nine, is spending his last Christmas as a Santa believer. Well, I would think so anyway. It's been hard to know when he'd stop believing. I was told by my kindergarten teacher, along with an entire class of kindergarten and first graders, that Santa, was indeed our parents. Apparently, Santa is somehow anti-Jesus, and she took it upon herself to inform us of this. Needless to say, that didn't sit well with mom and dad, and is how I ended up in Spanish Fort Elementary.
I'm sad, in a way to know that Jonathan will stop believing in Santa. It's one of those childish things to be left behind, and never recovered. A piece of mystery and magic that will simply disappear in a puff of maturity, leaving behind that first droplet of cynicism, which one day will define him as an adult. To see that change in his life is no joy for me. It's not that it tells of my age, or that my son will one day be a man, and no longer my little boy. No. It's that I see magic and mystery slowly becoming a fading part of our culture. That sense of wonder that inspires great art and literature, slowly drifts away from our daily lives. We are left with far too much stark reality and harsh truth. Perhaps it's just that I am getting old, but I wish more and more each year for Santa to be real.