This was written for my children, one of whom has just crossed over threshold and the other who stands at it with bright shining eyes.  To be held for them and given at the births of their firstborn.

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There is a window of time in which childhood dies.  Thankfully, it is later reborn.  

From the time we are old enough to comprehend twinkling lights on a Christmas tree until somewhere between nine and twelve years of age, we believe.  Death comes gradually after that.  Ushered in by more worldly classmates or parents who forget a price tag under a doll's shoe, it comes, slowly but surely, against all desire and will.  As with true death, we ignore it as long as we can, brushing off the lectures of the few unbelievers, keeping our eyelids closed in spite of the sounds of cookies crunching and presents sliding in the other room, overlooking small, tell-tale signs of mystery unravelling.  This period, like the one preceding it, is magical in its own way.  It is proof we long for innocence, for simplicity, for security.

Eventually, the cacophony overwhelms us.  Two lecturing classmates, become four, six, twelve. Not wanting to be bamboozled, led down a primrose path, made fun of, we come clean with ourselves.  Santa is not real.  Our parents played a game with us.  For a time, we are let down.  We rebound but it is never quite the same.  "Never" as in the way never feels when we are ten years old.  Childhood dies.  But only for a moment.  A "moment" as in the way a moment feels when we are 40 years old watching our own children blink at those same twinkling lights.

After a decade or two, we realize it wasn't death at all but a deep sleep.  In between, we grow up, not believing.  We become educated, marry, get jobs, and one day, have that first child of our own.  And when December next comes 'round, whether the child is a week old or a year, our own childhood sits up inside us, Lazerus-like, resurrecting and asking for the reins, which we gladly give.  As if that void, that cynicism, that awful gap of unbelief never existed, we find we believe again.   Santa is real, after all.  Like a grown up Virginia, we come to understand he is as real as wonder is real.  As real as love is real.  Invisible, untouchable, indescribable, yet real. 

Knowing what we know, and in love with our children, we slide presents silently, remove tags carefully, munch cookies softly.  And as we freeze in our steps at the sound of a child's breath two rooms away, we are children again, reborn and once more, trembling with delight.

Merry Christmas Claire and Abigail.

Daddy loves you.