Last year, my kids REFUSED to go to bed on Christmas Eve. Their protests started days earlier.
"We're just too excited!"
"I want to see Santa!"
"No fair! You and Mama get to stay up!"
So, I had to tell my kids the truth about why they had to go to bed and stay there on Christmas Eve. It's not because of Santa. We tell our kids that to spare them the horrid truth. The horrid, fanged truth.
"Children," I said, "it's time you learned about the Christmas Werewolf."
Their protests ceased.
"The Christmas Werewolf," I continued, "eats children who sneak out of bed at night to catch a glimpse of Santa. That's why you need to stay in bed on Christmas Eve."
"Did I ever tell you about daddy's brother, Sam?"
"No. You just have one brother, Uncle Ed."
"Of course not. [SIGH]. It was so long ago. Ed was just a baby. I was 5 years old, just like you Rosemary. Sam was two years older than me. On Christmas Eve, Sam sneaked out of our room to spy on Santa. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen. I heard a howl, Sam screamed and then...nothing. The Christmas Werewolf got him."
"Really. Now go to bed. I love you both. Good night."
"Good night, Daddy."
I close the door and listen.
"Daddy is so full of $#!t."
I howled and everything was quiet until Christmas morning.
(By the way, the Uncle Sam portion of the story was made up just now. I'd never tell my kids something that horrifying. Not till they're at least 12 anyway. TS)