Let's face it, most of us are scoffers. But moments before zero hour, it did not pay to take chances

Another Christmas story for you. This is one I tell my classroom every year.

The Year Santa Didn't Come

Once upon a time, we moved in November, and spent our first Floridian Christmas in a rental house. It was an odd set-up, with the bedrooms all upstairs and a split floor plan on the bottom floor.

One of the things I remember from that house was how my mother would scream our names from the kitchen, and we knew we were in trouble. We'd hesitate at the top of the stairs, not wanting to go downstairs and face our fate. Over half of the time, she'd called the wrong daughter anyways.

Well, Christmas was coming, and my mom wanted the tree in the front window so that it would shine for all the neighborhood to see. This particular year, my mom decided (against my better judgement now and forever) to open all the presents on Christmas Eve. My sister was 4 at that time, and has always gotten everything she's wanted, including opening presents on the Eve.

One reason I hated doing that...the Nintendo games and special controllers I got that year. For the Nintendo I didn't have. Awesome. After the presents and wrapping paper were cleaned up, and the toys put away, The Mom sent the girls off to bed.

Now at this time, my sister was 4, making me 14. (Christmas falls in the four month window when we're only 10 years apart). At 14, you're aware of the fallacy that is Santa, so you're not really eager to get up before, say, noon-ish-if-you-have-to on any given day, much less a day of Christmas Break. But when you're 4, you're still in that up-at-the-crack-of-dawn-in-order-to-maximize-playing-time kind of Christmas morning routine.

Imagine if you will me sound asleep, only to be woken up by a wailing 4 year old who is making absolutely no sense. Those of you with children know exactly how close to my face she was when she was seeking my attention. Once I realized it was not, in fact, the apocalypse, I looked at her and said "What?"

"Santa didn't come! Sissy! Get up! Get up! Santa didn't come!"

I'd like to say that I sat up and lovingly pulled her onto my lap and listened to her plight and sweetly consoled her, but we all know that'd be a big fat lie. Instead, what I said to her before rolling over and attempting to get some sleep was

"Guess you weren't very good this year."
(Yeah, I got smacked for that one later.)

The wailing that ensued after that last statement eventually woke up my parents. Thus the smacking. I huffed and I puffed and I got out of bed and took her by the hand down the stairs to show her that Santa had in fact visited us and brought us both many things, including the Nintendo on which to play the games I'd been gifted.

When we finally pieced the morning events together, we realized that she got to the bottom of the steps, took one look at the empty tree, and come running back up the stairs. She didn't go around the corner to find the stockings hung by the chimney with care and the loot that Santa had left. She thought he'd have left them in front of the tree.

What she didn't realize is that Santa is about as lazy as a 14 year old girl when it comes to getting the gifts out and arranged.

And the lesson in all of this:
She's never learned not to believe a word I say, and I started trying to teach her this at an early age.