I’m a sucker for Santa.  

Always have been. Always will be. I was that kid at the top of the stairs calling to my parents, “Can we come down now? Now? NOW?” while they took their sweet time making coffee and arranging a healthy Christmas breakfast of homemade chocolate chip cookies.  

I can still access that visceral thrill of rushing down the steps to find the unexpected under the tree. It was a magical time. 

In the midst of holiday planning recently, my daughter laughingly announced “I remember when you told me there was no Santa.” 

Wait? What?! There’s no Santa?  

So full is my enjoyment of this magical flying, red suited, white bearded dude that I am still shocked each time I hear that statement.

“It was in Kohl’s parking lot.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. I have absolutely no memory of that exchange. She filled in some details but it was clear I had definitely blocked out that moment.

At this age, she found it funny, but I’m sure I felt the poignancy of the disappearing magic at the time.



I did recall the year before while putting her to bed when she asked, “Mom, tell me the truth, are you Santa?” I responded like any parent who was infatuated with the magical wonder of innocence and also wanted to tell the truth to their kid. I smiled and asked her,

“Do you really want me to answer that question?”

“Nope.” Sweet dreams. Crisis averted. Apparently the following year I just answered the damn question when asked.

“Yup. I’m Santa and magic is real.”

We still wait at the top of the stairs for my husband to slowly, slowly, slowly put out the coffee and cookies.

The excitement is there, but to tell you the truth, a bit of the wonder has receded.

This year, perhaps more than any time before, I remembered again something important.