I put Jake to bed a little while ago. He looked huge in his bed. He’s big for eight. And I can’t believe he still believes in Santa Claus.
I took the kids to an event on Saturday where they got to hang out with Santa. Which, frankly, was a little weird. Nice weird, but still weird. I think it’s what living in Orlando would be like. Disney World would lose some of its magic if you could just go there any time. When you can sit with Santa for an hour and talk to him about more than what you want for Christmas, does he lose his magic?
I thought that might have been what happened, because as I was covering Jake up tonight (he always puts the sheet on top, and I always have to reverse it), he said “I want to see the real Santa Claus.” What do you mean, Jake? “That guy was just a helper, right? Fiona pulled his beard, and that was real, but he wasn’t the real one, was he?” They’re all helpers, Jake. Santa can’t be everywhere.
He thought for a minute, and I paid extra attention to his blanket as I tried to figure out what was going on. “Mommy, why do they always hire big fat guys to be Santa?” [treading carefully] Because in commercials he’s big and fat and jolly and if the people they hired didn’t look like that you wouldn’t believe it was Santa.
I waited to see what he’d say next. If he had asked me in that moment if Santa were real I would have told him the truth. After what seemed like forever, he decided to go with the safe choice, the choice that would assure him gifts and magic for one more year: “Next time let’s try to see the real Santa so that I can give him my list.”