Footsteps echo down the stairs at 7:00 in the morning. Snowflakes race each other as they fall down the kitchen window, differentiated by their intricate patterns, much like my family’s stockings dedicated to each member. On the fireplace, half-eaten cookies and an empty glass of milk have Santa’s name written all over them. 

At least that’s what I assumed. The next year I found out Santa was wrongfully accused; it was my hungry dad who the finger should have been pointed at. 

At first, I didn’t feel betrayed, I felt grown up. I was eight, and I knew something I was sure half of my friends didn’t: Santa isn’t real. However, it wasn’t long before I noticed my excitement beginning to fade along with the magic tied to my innocence. I saw Christmas through a more mature lens that diluted the hue of ornaments and the brightness of tree lights.

Part of my maturing came with my parents’ divorce. The divide formed a crack on the fragile glass exterior of our family snow globe. Change was something I feared greatly, that’s why I was so drawn to our little traditions. My mom with her camera on our jubilant faces, my dad on wrapping paper duty. They were a team that I didn’t know was playing against itself. 

The year I found out about their divorce was a year of vast change; one tree turned into two. I yearn for the days when the five of us bundled up preparing for our adventure to the evergreen-filled Ace Hardware. I’d always look for the largest tree, even if I knew it couldn’t fit in our house. 

I miss when my sister and I snuck licks of frosting meant to hold together our gingerbread houses, sled hills that felt like the Rockies, and searching for our elf, Sofia (named after Sofia the First), was my biggest concern. 

Winter break used to be just that: a break. 

The bell would ring and my third grade self would squirm excitedly, full of butterflies. The wait for days consumed by Home Alone and hot cocoa was over, and I no longer had to think twice about a single class for two weeks. 

Now I, along with plenty of other South students, am faced with the immense pressure that finals bestow. Last year during break I spent two hours nearly every day on the vicious cycle of sorting my flashcards into “know” and “don’t know” piles. 

If I encountered a strange looking lamp sometime in the near future and a genie were to miraculously appear, I would only have one wish: take me back. 

Take me back to when Christmas cookies didn’t make me feel guilty. Take me back to matching Christmas pajamas with my brother and sister. Take me back to when I thought yellow snow was lemon flavored. Take me back to when Santa was real. I miss you Santa. I miss believing in you. 

For Christmas this year can you make me eight years old again? I don’t want to feel grown up anymore.