When I was about 10 years old, I read The Polar Express for the first time with my parents and sister by the light of our enormous Fraser fir. I really didn't believe he was real anymore, but isn't there always a part of you that wishes he was? Most especially as a kid when you're still straddling the in-between stage of belief and disbelief. After my dad finished the story, I flipped to the copyright page and pointed out how it listed all the subjects of the book, including Santa Claus, as fiction. My dad resolutely disagreed with the book, but didn't argue with me. He said something about how he didn't care what other people said, he would always believe. I'm willing to bet if I asked him even today, he'd claim there is a Santa Claus. I love that about him.
I've realized in the last few days that there's such a short time between when a child understands the concept of Santa and when they stop believing in him. Liza gets Santa this year. Who knows how many years we have until someone talks her into believing otherwise, and we're having so much fun reliving the magic with her. She's been talking about writing to Santa for weeks now. I hope to surprise her soon with a return letter from the big guy, postmarked all the way from the North Pole.
1 comment:
I don't ever remember believing in Santa. Boo hiss on the party pooper! I was born a skeptic, I guess.
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