Christmas morning doesn’t start when the kids run down the stairs.
For dads, it starts hours earlier—usually in the dark, stepping carefully over creaky floorboards, holding our breath like we’re defusing a bomb made entirely of wrapping paper.
Because on Christmas morning, dads are the keepers of the magic.
We’re the ones who stay up too late assembling toys that were clearly designed by someone who has never met a Phillips-head screwdriver. We squint at instructions written in twelve languages, none of which appear to be English. We whisper-argue with tape. We quietly vow never to buy anything that says “some assembly required” ever again.
And yet—we do it.
Because Christmas morning isn’t about perfection. It’s about wonder.
It’s about making sure the tree lights come on at just the right moment. It’s about placing the cookies exactly where they were left, and making sure there’s evidence—crumbs, maybe a half-empty glass of milk—that someone very important stopped by during the night.
Dads keep the magic by sweating the small stuff.
We make coffee quietly so the house still feels asleep. We sit back on the couch, pretending we’re not exhausted, pretending we didn’t wrap gifts at midnight, pretending we don’t already know what’s in every box.
And when the kids come down the stairs—hair messy, eyes wide, still half dreaming—we get to watch it happen.
That moment.
The pause at the bottom of the stairs.
The gasp.
The sudden belief that the world is good and surprising and generous.
That’s the payoff.
But, dads don’t need "credit" for it. We don’t need applause. We just need a front-row seat.
We hand over batteries like stagehands. We cut tags. We nod approvingly at gifts we secretly hope will keep them busy for at least twenty minutes. We smile at socks like they’re treasure. We laugh when the kids love the box more than what came inside it.
Because dads understand something important:
The magic isn’t in the gifts.
It’s in the effort.
It’s in showing up tired.
It’s in saying “of course Santa knows where you live.”
It’s in keeping the story alive just a little longer, even when life gets heavy and noisy and complicated.
If we do our job right, they’ll never stop believing in Christmas.
They’ll remember how it felt.
They’ll remember the warmth.
They’ll remember a dad on the couch, coffee in hand, smiling like this moment was exactly where he wanted to be....because IT IS!
So here’s to dads on Christmas morning—
The builders.
The believers.
The keepers of the magic.
Merry Christmas, Dad. 🎄