When I was about six years old, I believed in all kinds of things: Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, leprechauns, unicorns, and of course Santa. My parents didn't start me on this path of belief, it just happened. Though they didn't encourage these ideas, they didn't outright tell me that these things were fictional.
I guess they didn't want to harm my imagination by telling me they weren't real. Either that or they didn't want me to think that my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins had lied to me about this stuff. Whatever their reasons, they let me hop, skip, and jump believing these folktales and magical creatures existed.
Out of all these fairy tale creatures and magical beings, Santa was the big one. He was the guy that made sure that good kids got gifts on Christmas morning, even if their parents didn't have the money to get them presents. As a child with parents that struggled to feed us, this was great news. All you had to do to get a gift was be good. That was something I could do.
Before I go any farther, I want to warn you, this is a story about the death of belief. Specifically, the death of my belief in Santa. I know, real bummer, but bear with me, this story has a happy ending.
