believing

I remember when I was little, we spent every Christmas in Ohio at my Grandparents. We made the nine hour trek every year as soon as school let out, the trunk of the Impala stuffed with gifts and cookies, my brother and I annoying each other by crossing over the imaginary line in the backseat.

Such joyous, magical memories of cozy evenings at the White Gift Service at the Presbyterian Church on Christmas Eve decked out in our festive fancy shiny clothes, hearing my Grandma sing in the choir, then back to their house for food and friends, and the occasional fart joke that I wasn't supposed to hear. Waking up on Christmas morning way too early, and convincing my younger brother to go wake everyone up (he was younger and therefore wouldn't get in trouble like I would've). Sneaking out to the pitch dark living room to take inventory of everyone's stocking contents and memorizing who each gift was for under the tree.

But mostly, I remember feeling confused. My Grandparents didn't have a fireplace and without a fireplace, how in the ho-ho-ho was Santa going to deliver our presents? No chimney to shimmy down, and there were usually so many gifts we had to move my Grandpa's brown recliner in front of the front door to make extra room. How would Santa get in? It was enough to keep me awake at night for weeks in angst.

There was a large air vent near the ceiling at the front of the hallway, and my parents convinced me that Santa's big butt could fit through that thing, after he used his power tools to unscrew the screws and pop off the cover. I remember being skeptical but alas, every Christmas morning there was a bountiful, shimmering pile of loot under the tree, many of them from Santa himself, and I figured he must have just wedged himself just right through that air vent and plopped right down in the hallway right outside of my bedroom door.

It didn't hurt that one year, when I was being particularly rebellious about going to bed my Dad staged a phone call to me from Santa. The phone rang around 10:30 pm and my Grandma told me it was for me, it was Santa! This was before cell phones existed and I remember wondering how Santa could possibly be calling from his sleigh? Or horrors, was he calling to tell me he was stuck at the North Pole sick and unable to come? I picked up the phone in a flash and Santa on the other end told me in no uncertain terms I better get my rear end in bed or he would be passing right by my Grandparents house and giving my presents to other less fortunate children. Speechless, I gulped and hightailed it down the hallway to bed faster than Clark Grizwald flew down the hill on his metal saucer sled coated with non-caloric silicone-based kitchen lubricant.

I don't remember when I found out that Santa wasn't real, or even how I found out. In all honesty, a part of me still believes. And I've been wondering, how much longer do we have for Dylan to believe? He's 6 1/2. Maybe a year or two? I wonder how he'll find out. I've been careful this year to hide the wrapping paper that I've used to wrap their gifts, so he can't figure out its the same kind Santa uses. I'm not even putting name tags on the gifts in case I can't disguise my handwriting well enough. And once Dylan finds out, can we keep him from spilling the beans to Logan?

I hope so. Because this time of year is truly magical and I think we all need some magic in our lives no matter how old we are.