My calendar for December is already full. We are going to visit Kris Kringle one night at the historical park by candlelight, we have tickets for lunch at the Botanical Gardens with Santa, we are going to the tinsel trail, ice skating in the park, to the living Christmas tree, to see the Nutcracker ballet, to the outdoor mall to see the giant tree, and (if I can swing it) to walk through the Galaxy of Lights. On top of that, we will decorate our house, buy our Christmas tree, have Elf on the Shelf, write letters to Santa, have our big family dinner on Christmas Eve and another on Christmas Night, read Christmas stories all month, wrap presents, make (and eat) all kinds of cookies, listen to Christmas music, watch Christmas movies, drink hot cocoa and send out Christmas cards. We do Christmas non-stop for 3 weeks, trying to eek out every magical moment that we have.
I do this partly because of how much I love Christmas. I love the lights, the decorations, the smells, the anticipation, the excitement. I love seeing their faces reflect the sheer magic of the season, the moments when they just can’t believe this is all happening. I do it to share these moments, these memories with them, so that when they think back to their childhoods later on, that they will remember these years with happiness.
But partly, I’m doing this because I don’t know how much longer they are going to believe, how many more years I have until we have to have *the talk.* The talk where he asks me if Santa is really real. Of all the milestones my children have had or will have, that’s one of the ones I dread the most. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to hold it together for them, or if we’ll all end up a crying mess (I’ll probably be a crying mess.)
He’s six, and this year is still magic. He hasn’t shown any iota of doubt or questioning. And I want to keep it that way as long as I possibly can.