I love Christmas; I find it such a special, joyous time of year. However there was a time when in my childhood when the magic disappeared from Christmas day. On Christmas Eve of my ninth year my older brother let slip that Father Christmas was not real.

I was devastated. I went to bed on what had always been the most magical night of the year for me, and felt nothing. Throughout the night I kept having flashbacks from previous Christmas periods; however they were now ruined memories. The night before Christmas, when I would show my dad my list and I would explain just why I wanted the items, then we would curl up in front of the open fire and together we would throw the letter up the chimney. Every year my uncle who worked in the post office would arrive on Christmas day with a letter from Santa. I saw in my mind's eye Christmas mornings when I would crawl between my mum and dad in their double bed and open my stocking with them. I now felt like such a fool. Christmas day came and went; the presents did not mean a thing to me, all the excitement had vanished.

The next year was just the same, I felt hollow at Christmas. I just automatically wrote out a list and gave it to my dad weeks before to give him the time to get my presents, and helped my parents decorate the house. Christmas remained like this until one year my parents decided that we were going to go to Midnight Mass, instead of going in the morning. I went to bed at eight in the evening feeling really excited, and woke at eleven to get dressed up in a new dress and ribbons. That first experience of a Midnight Mass was amazing; we were at Church for two hours; with the carol service, the Mass, and a party afterwards. Suddenly the magic had returned. For the first time I truly realised what this day meant, and what we were celebrating; our Saviour's birthday, the day God was born amongst his creation, and I was overawed. Later that morning after we had had some sleep I opened my stocking and it felt real again. The purpose had returned to Christmas. We have gone to the Midnight Mass every year since then, and I still get the same thrill that magical Christmas Eve at the age of twenty one as I did that first time when we went.

As the years have gone by those early Christmas memories have become treasured memories. However now I reflect on whether it is good for children to be brought up with the myth of Santa. Christmas was a magical time for me, then I was disillusioned, and then as I grew up, the true meaning of Christmas became apparent to me.

I argue that instead of every child having to go through this process as I did, that the tradition of Santa should not be perpetuated. I believe that the Christ' should be put back into Christmas. The focus should from the start be on Jesus' birthday. If children grow up knowing the story and true meaning of Christmas, and recognise that they receive presents as a way of celebrating the birthday of Jesus, then Christmas will always remain special to them. There will be no disappointments and ruined Christmas days, and the focus will be concentrated on the true meaning of this special time.

Learn more about this author, Hannah Curtis.
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