We have our little tradition down now. My Dad and I go visit Mom's grave and wish her a Merry Christmas. We then have lunch together. The boys go out to lunch and then shopping with my step-mom. Then we meet up back home.
We order something for delivery, the boys open their one gift, which is always new pajamas, and then baths and PJs. We decorate gingerbread men, track Santa on Norad, waiting for him to visit our family in Scotland. We then get our cookies for Santa and shuffle the boys down the hall to read.
This year we were more prepared, we had the presents wrapped already, the stockings filled up.
For a month now, I've been savoring this year as our last year with Santa. The boys are seven. It's a miracle that the older kids haven't ruined it for them yet. But I don't hold out much hope for next year. So, every little thing I wanted to hit on this year. My husband and Jamie had a talk about Santa, and he's pretty much figured out that the Santas he's been seeing aren't really Santa. That Santa is so busy and has so many children to see.
But he surprised us this year. He wrote a letter he wanted to leave with Santa and his cookies. It said that he was so happy that Santa said he'd visit our house first in WV (from the Google phone call he got), and that he believes in him.
It made me want to cry.
Jamie is so excited about Santa. And for an Aspie who deals in the black and white, I love that he's gung-ho in believing in Santa. Iain totally believes, and I love that about the boys.
I hear this song during the holidays every year, and it makes me cry. As the boys get older, and Santa takes a back burner, the tooth fairy fading into the shadows, Big Bird already a faint memory, Mickey & Company not to be far behind.
Tomorrow we'll awake to squealing children, so happy that Santa visited them, wanting us to come out and see.
And I will do it with a smile, because maybe next year I won't have the magic of Christmas anymore.