As a child, Christmas was a magical, magical, just the most fantabulous time.
I believed in Santa because like all parents, they had the lie-to-child-make-their-life-fun gene. Christmas eve, I could hardly wait to go to sleep because in the morning.
Oh, in the morning.
There they were. The Christmas presents, colorful and wrapped around the tree with our names on them. When I learned Santa was not real, thankfully I had a strong constitution and it did not traumatize me so much.
By the way, I apologize for sounding dreadfully bourgeoisie up in here.
As we grew, we developed a new family, less lie-induced family tradition. I’m going to share a family secret.
Just because it’s Christmas…
We now buy gifts for each member of the family and place them under the tree surreptitiously the night before. How members of a family are able to dodge each other in the placement of these presents is a matter for the gods to understand.
So anyway, each person has to pick boxes with their names and guess who gave it to them. Isn’t that neat?
Hater with Humour 