If Only I Could Believe in Santa Claus

Christmas. We’re here. The Mayans were wrong after all.

I never believed them anyway. If they could predict the end of the world, why couldn’t they predict the end of their own civilization?

Fact is, I don’t believe in much. But sometimes I wish I did. I look at my little girl, confident that she will wake up on the morning of the 25th, wander down the stairs in her PJs, and find a treasure trove delivered the night before by a fat guy in a red suit.

I’m at least two decades and then some from believing in Santa Claus, but boy do I miss it.

The wonder.

The magic.

The idea that somewhere out there is a mystical creature who loves children so that he would make miracles happen just to put smiles on their faces.

If I still believed in him, I wonder, would I feel better about the world, about a place where horrors like the shooting at Sandy Hook can happen? Where bad men and women hurt children every day?

Santa has been getting a lot of flak from the parents who insist parents who let their kids believe are selling the kiddos a bill of goods that will make things uncomfortable when it’s time to actually settle the bill. I’m of the other camp, where my child is encouraged to believe for as long as it makes sense, to extend the wonder and magic, to keep her childhood safe in a world where childhood is increasingly undervalued.

But this isn’t about the kids.

It’s about me.

I want to believe, if not in Santa than in something, something good and pure and able to set aside petty differences to make children happy.

And if he could bring me a new camera and maybe a check to pay off the mortgage, well, I wouldn’t say no.
Hey, as long as I’m dreaming …

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