Why the Santa Question Hurts So Much

Because it's all about me.

Because it's all about me.

My 9-year-old asked me the other day if I really bought the presents for Santa to put under the tree. It stopped me in my tracks. It literally gave me a hot flash and made me feel like someone had just punched me in the stomach.

It's time. (long drawn out expletive in my head)

It's not so much the issue about Santa. Nor the fact that we are all big fat liars. It's more about the fact that somehow that one question is some kind of beacon for growing up. Some sort of slap in my face that he's not a little boy anymore. That he's fast heading into adolescence in the next few years. That 9 years has gone by way too fast and that time keeps speeding up. That I just want to freeze this little boy in time.


I asked him what he thought, and for now, he still wants to believe.

I'd like him to believe a little longer -- for me. Because I still need the magic in his *little* eyes at Christmas.

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