I cherish the quiet, reflective moments with my ten-year old daughter before she snuggles down beneath her covers and drifts off to sleep. Tonight, under the dim shadows of her twinkling strand of Christmas lights, she spoke softly as she said, “Mommy, I don’t think I believe in Santa Claus anymore.” And my world stopped.
Holding back unanticipated tears, I purred a gentle “Hmmm” and paused to let her think aloud. “And characters like the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy,” she whispered. My heart pumped with an unfamiliar adrenal rush. Stacks of Christmas memories scattered through my head like a deck of cards tossed in the air.
She reasoned a bit more while I tried to reorganize my thoughts. Calmly, I found the courage to say, “It’s perfectly natural for growing minds to begin doubting things (like that man who mysteriously glides across the night sky in a reindeer-led sleigh). Your maturing self will start to question many things in life,” I guided, “but here’s the thing; don’t ever doubt that Santa is a reminder that the world is full of good people and magical things.” She nodded, the sweetest smile crossing her little face. Then she gracefully added, “And all the presents aren’t really what Christmas is all about anyway.”
“No. No, they’re not,” I replied, swelling with pride, and I tucked her in with a wink and a kiss. Santa might be make-believe but my angel is for real.