Dear Santa Friday

...Real Simple Magazine had a feature in December's issue that gave me an idea. There were several writers that wrote Dear Santa letters at different ages in their lives. Most of them were hilarious but some were very poignant. I decided that on Fridays until Christmas, I am going to write my own Dear Santa letters. There is a lot I want to say to Jolly Ole St. Nick. Here is the first one:

Dear Santa,
I first want to say that I am sorry I haven't written in so long. It wasn't because I stopped believing, althougth there were a few years that you existing was doubtful to me. Let's call those, The Dark Years.

You know the ones. The year I wrote left you milk and cookies and I must have told my mother that I really hoped you wrote me a letter in return. That was the year I started questioning. My brother had already made up his mind. I remember my sisters and mom trying so hard to convince him you were real. He just wasn't buying it. I tried to, but was wary. What if you weren't real? Did magic not exist?

Anyway, I did get a letter that Christmas morning and my heart sank. I tried to conceal my disappointment and even hung the letter on my bulletin board, but the more I looked at it, the more it became clear: My mom wrote that letter.

I don't (and never did) blame my mother. She has excellent penmenship and I know how hard it is to write differently (especially because I now have to do it myself to my kids). But I was so sad to know that you weren't real. It was all just a story.

Flash forward a few years. In junior high, each homeroom class had to decorate their door for Christmas and the best door from each grade would win the contest. (Isn't it sad that contest probably isn't even allowed anymore?) Anyway, my class chose to put the letter, "Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus" and when I read that letter, wrote those words down on huge paper to cover the door, my heart rejoiced.

You became real again. And at Christmas, I became a child again.

Now, I am a mom. I have two boys and one is reaching the age I was when I stopped believing there was magic for awhile. While I wish it wasn't so, I know that soon, he will not believe that I heard reindeer hooves on the roof. He will study his letter from Santa and know, just know, that I wrote it.

I hope though, that when I read him the letter, written way back in 1897, he will know that you do still exist. Maybe not in the way he once thought, but in an even more real and special way.

Until next week,
Aimee

PS- For the letter, and a neat background of the editor and Virginia, click here:
And click here to see a scan of the original letter in the newspaper. Just for fun.