“To escape adult life, one must be able to relive the wonders of a child’s Christmas.”
Paraphrased from Carol Ann Duffy
In the hallowed, twinkling glow of December, when the world transforms into a shimmering kaleidoscope of reds, greens, and ethereal whites, there exists a peculiar, almost sacred tradition. It’s the ceremonious perpetuation of a jolly, bearded man in a red suit – Santa Claus, Father Christmas, Kris Kringle, or whatever alias he’s operating under these days.
Now, before you dismiss this as mere child’s play, allow me to advocate for the enchantment, the sheer, unadulterated magic of letting our little ones bask in the glow of Santa’s benevolence, if only for a fleeting moment in their hurried sprint towards adulthood.
Imagine, if you will, a world unmarred by the dreary drudgery of deadlines, taxes, and the ever-looming specter of adult responsibilities. A world where reindeer not only fly but do so with a certain panache that would make even the most seasoned aviator green with envy. This is the world our children inhabit every December, and frankly, I’m a tad jealous. Why? Because in this world, cookies are a viable currency, and being ‘naughty or nice’ is the only moral dichotomy worth fretting over.
Encouraging belief in Santa isn’t about fostering a deception; it’s about endorsing a workshop of wonderment in the minds of our children. It’s about allowing their imaginations to saunter, gallivant, and occasionally, cartwheel with abandon through realms we, the oh-so-serious adults, have long since forgotten. In their world, elves are not just diminutive creatures with pointy ears but master craftsmen capable of turning a lump of wood into the hottest toy of the year, without so much as a blueprint in sight.
And let’s talk about the big man himself, Santa. In an age where we track everything from our steps to our sleep patterns, Santa manages to circumnavigate the globe, undetected by even the most sophisticated of technologies. He’s the original stealth operative, a clandestine figure shrouded in mystery and powered by the sheer force of belief and, presumably, an ungodly amount of sugar.
So, why rob our children of this delicious delusion? Why rush to replace their sugarplum visions with stark reality? There will come a day when spreadsheets eclipse sleigh rides and fiscal forecasts replace flying reindeer. But until that day comes, let them revel in the rapture of a world where magic is not just possible but palpable.
Let them pen their letters to the North Pole with the earnestness of a diplomat negotiating peace. Let them set out the milk and cookies with the precision of a Michelin-starred chef. And when they finally drift off to sleep, visions of toy drones dancing in their heads, let’s all take a moment to appreciate the glorious, unbridled joy of believing in something bigger, something grander, something decidedly more magical than ourselves.
For in the end, isn’t that what we’re all searching for? A little magic, a sprinkle of wonder, and the belief that, maybe, just maybe, there’s a bit of Santa in all of us. So, this holiday season, let the children have their Santa. Let them marinate in the magic, for soon enough, they’ll join us in the realm of reality, and who knows, they might just bring a little bit of that magic with them.
