My eight-year-old son, Nathaniel, still believes in Santa. When he talks about Santa, he jumps up and down in small bursts of energy that he can’t contain. The other day I caught him looking up the chimney, trying to figure out how a fat man with a large sack of gifts could possibly get through such a small space. We also have to leave the requisite cookies and milk out for Santa when he comes. And maybe a few carrots in the yard for the reindeer.
Nathaniel’s belief in Santa doesn’t bother me. In fact, I think it’s beautiful. Imagine a world where a little eight-year-old boy still has the innocence to believe that a benevolent, overgrown elf flies around the world on Christmas eve delivering presents to good little boys and girls. It’s magical. And I love that about Nathaniel. He has a wonderful imagination. He loves stories about knights, dragons, wizards, Jedi, and ninja. Santa is just part of that magical world he believes in. I know it won’t last.