Do You Believe In Magic?

Yesterday at the mall, Paul and I saw from afar that Santa had arrived.

I know... already. Ignoring the rising panic at how fast Christmas is coming, we took Porter down to Santa to give him a glimpse -- mainly so we could see what we were in for. You never know. Porter was too little to care about the Easter Bunny, but now that he's older and has an affinity for beards, we wanted to check in to see if he would love or hate the bearded wonder that is Kris Kringle.

He didn't even notice. We sat beyond the cute little fence, watching a bunch of kids interacting with Santa and waiting for Porter to see this guy with the fluffy white beard, but he was too busy staring at the strange kids running around the mall around him to even pay a second of attention to the man in red we were pointing at and exclaiming over.

We were interrupted by a cute little boy in glasses. He was maybe four or five years old, standing near the computer where parents pour over photo proofs of their screaming/smiling little ones on Santa's lap. He saw us looking and pointing at Santa in awe and he excitedly joined in our conversation.

"That's the real Santa," he told me. Paul and I exchanged a smile. This little boy was so happy. "Oh, really? It is?"

"Yep." He was matter-of-fact. Not a doubt in his mind. "Can you believe it? That's actually Santa. Santa Claus. He's here."

In my mind, I was rolling my eyes (I would never actually roll my eyes at the kid because, ew, so grinchy). But this kid actually thought that Santa - the "real" Santa - is in Tacoma, Washington. On November 19th. Please. Kids are so funny.

We walked away, leaving him in his excitement after sharing a quick moment with him about how cool it was that that was the real Santa. As we walked away, Paul mentioned to me how sad it was that you lose that magic and wonder as you get older. He looked nostalgic, like he was remembering his childhood years and pretending, for just a moment, that the Santa we'd just seen was the Santa of his youth. Thinking back to his years as that little boy.

Gutcheck. I'd lost the magic. I hadn't interacted with the little boy and remembered those magical childhood years lovingly. I had been critical and amused and wondering in the back of my mind when we could start moving because, ugh, Porter was starting to show signs of being cranky.

I have a little boy now, who in a couple of years will be squealing with excitement and exclaiming about the magical idea of Santa Claus coming to town. I'm a mother, who has been assigned the responsibility of cultivating this little boy's imagination... and I stopped believing in magic some time ago.

I know there's a fine balance between knowing the real reason for the season, yet still appreciating the years where Christmas is nothing but snow and lights and hand-delivered gifts from the North Pole.

I'm refueled now. Excited for the coming years when I get to witness Porter's awe and amazement about these incredibly magical times. Last night, I promised myself to get just as excited as he is. Life has a way of stealing the magic, but the only way you can remain young at heart is by actively deciding to never grow stale.

(And I'm sorry if you've been singing the McDonald's "Do You Believe In Magic" jingle this entire time. Because I have.)