The truth about Santa

Somewhere along the lines of childhood and adulthood, Christmas changes radically.
I was 9 when I woke up during the wee hours of Christmas morning to spy on Santa. I remember tiptoeing down the hallway like a secret agent.

My brother was still sleeping, and I considered waking him up so he can join me in catching the hefty man in action. I decided, though, that it was a much better idea to take the credit all for myself.
As I neared the living room, I could hear whispers. I wondered who Santa was talking to.
In my colorful fleece pajamas, I leaned forward in hopes to see the white-bearded, red-suited, jolly man I’d always envisioned. Instead, I saw a baggy-eyed, yawning mom and dad tiredly wrapping gifts on the dining room table.
That was the day Christmas started changing for me.
I never again left treats for Santa over night, nor did I look out my window searching for a sleigh in the sky.
As I got older, I went from getting toys and games to getting socks and gift cards.
When I got a job, I started giving more and receiving less.
Every year, Christmas felt less like Christmas.
And then, last December, my brother (the one who was sleeping at the beginning of this story) and his wife had their first children, Nicholas and Giovanni De Guzman.
As I wrapped their gifts this Christmas, and then watched the boys unwrap them, I felt the holiday spirit coming back.
I wondered if they’d ever try to catch Mr. Clause dropping off gifts under the tree, or if they’d leave milk and cookies for him, all to have mom and dad eat them secretly at night.
I also imagined me getting into a big red suit, but we won’t get into that.
The truth is, I’m already looking forward to next Christmas.
Thanks, Nick and Gio, for making the holidays magical all over again.