“I’m six-years-old. You’re only five,” my brother announced. “Bet I can prove Santa Claus doesn’t exist.”
Listening for voices from the Christmas party downstairs, we tip-toed upstairs to our parent’s bedroom. “Look,” he whispered.
I’m devastated. It’s Uncle Wayne.
The line is a mile long for Santa and his elves the next morning at the Mall. I looked down at my shoe, stalling. My Mom could tell something was wrong. Not sure what to say I blurted out “I’m too old for Santa Claus!”
So, she sat on his lap instead and read off her long list of goods.
Listening for voices from the Christmas party downstairs, we tip-toed upstairs to our parent’s bedroom. “Look,” he whispered.
I’m devastated. It’s Uncle Wayne.
The line is a mile long for Santa and his elves the next morning at the Mall. I looked down at my shoe, stalling. My Mom could tell something was wrong. Not sure what to say I blurted out “I’m too old for Santa Claus!”
So, she sat on his lap instead and read off her long list of goods.
