Santa apparently visits my Dad at work. If he needs a body bag, he sees Pappy. Oh, by the way, my dad runs the warehouse and supplies for a large hospital conglomeration.
Pappy and my first born were having this conversation. I silently sat. My dad would glance at me to see if I would do my usual, "Santa isn't real honey. He was real. But now he's dead and mommies and daddies and pappies and nanas work real hard to buy you the Christmas surprises you like so much."
Merry Christmas kid.
I might as well give him a pack of smokes and yell at him for spilling paint in the garage. (Blatant Breakfast Club reference. Sigh, a moment of admiration for John Hughes.)
A friend, my sister/mother/faith/home school goddess, suggested bridging fantasy with reality by having santa work with mommy and daddy. This way we share the credit.
I'm still struggling. Stay tuned.
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