He is the obese, probably diabetic, man who wears red velvet pajamas as he breaks into your house to eat your holiday goodies and leave gifts he knew you wanted because he watches you constantly.
Ahhhh, to be young and innocent again.
I don't remember when I stopped believing in Santa and his magical shenanigans. It must have been a gradual process that began with me silently wondering why my parents were helping Santa do his job. Most of my presents were from them, not Santa. The big guy only brought me the boring stuff I needed like sweaters and underwear.
I now realize they just wanted to take credit for the good stuff like the Nintendo and the bike and the British Knights with pink and white laces.
Corey's story is a little more tragic.
At six years old he thought to leave Santa the last of his parents' Heinekens with the cookies. (The intuitive child figured he probably needed to take a load off.) When he saw the beer back in the fridge the next morning he knew his parents had pulled a fast one.
I wouldn't feel too bad for the kid. If a six year old could rationalize giving Santa a beer instead of the traditional glass of milk, I'm sure he was smart enough to understand his parents' logic in leading him on for so many years.
My strategy: keep the story going. My kids will one day appreciate the harsh lesson in vulnerability. Tough love, folks. Tough love.
When did you stop believing?