miracle

My four year old daughter, Lucy, is finally asleep tonight.  It is the first Christmas Eve that she really understands, and the first that my wife and I have actually had to prepare for.  Tonight, we surprised her with some flannel pajamas that "Santa made a special trip to deliver early" for her.  It's a tradition that my wife and I coincidentally both shared as children: new PJ's on Christmas Eve, from Santa.  Each moment of this season reminds me of my own childhood, and the excitement that she cannot contain is an echo of the excitement I still feel for a holiday that I keep thinking I've grown out of. 

I once wondered back in December, 2003:

"I'm a bit worried about telling Lucy about the whole Santa thing when she gets a little older. Isn't that just a giant lie that we'll be feeding her? Same with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and all of the other crazy magic things that deliver treats. Isn't it weird to lie to your kids? They're so trusting and you tell them these CRAZY stories. I'm sure we'll do it, but it sure seems twisted."

Tonight, I understand.  Kids want to believe in Santa Claus.   My parents kept Santa Claus alive for as long as we allowed them to.  Even when my brother and I knew; even when we'd found the "Walkie-Talkies" hidden in their closet, opened them, played with them for a couple of months, and then carefully replaced them in their original packaging a couple of nights before Christmas; even when all of my friends told me they knew FOR SURE that Santa was a lie, we believed.  We believed in the way that people believe that "everything happens for a reason."  We believed in the same way that people believe in Karma.  We believed because the fantasy of some kind of holiday magic was far more enticing than the reality of what was most obvious.

Tonight, as my wife and I wrapped presents, helped Lucy lay out some cookies and milk for Santa, carefully filled the space beneath our first Christmas Tree in our new house, and stuffed her stocking full of toys and treats, I felt a renewed love and admiration for my parents.  I have nothing but wonderful memories of all of our Christmases, and even though I can still remember staying awake long enough to hear my father hauling toys out of the attic to place beneath our tree, I can also remember convincing myself that Santa supplemented the presents with special ones that he delivered himself.  I believed it because I wanted to believe it.  It made more sense than trying to grow up faster than I was ready to.  Not believing in Santa meant seeing things I wasn't quite ready to see.  I opted for the fantasy instead of the more loaded reality.

Much has been written of Christmas and of Santa, and so often, people look for holes in the holiday, or ponder the "true spirit," or lament that we've lost the actual meaning of it all.  I choose to embrace the good inherent in the Christmas season.  It is love and family and memories of wonderful, magical things.  It is anticipation and reward, and belief in something bigger, whatever that may be. 

This Christmas, our first as a family of five (if you count the dog), I am complicit in the perpetuation of Santa Claus and all that he represents.  It is a lie, to be sure, but it is a lie that children want to be told; a lie they will remember fondly; a lie that I hope they one day tell.  My excitement for tomorrow is rekindled by the anticipation of seeing my daughter's eyes light up when she rounds the corner to see all of the presents under the tree.  After spending the night preparing for Christmas day, I am thankful that my parents let me believe for so long.  It is a belief I've never quite let go of, even as I eat the last bite of "Santa's" plate of cookies. 

I made sure to leave crumbs and a note as proof for Lucy. 

Hey...it worked on me. 

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Ho Ho Ho to all.