I'd had a pretty sucky Monday (is there any other kind?) and I was so very tempted to whine -- or even wine. But before I could pout or pour, I peeked into the living room to check on my eight-year-old son, who had been quiet long enough for me to grow suspicious. Perhaps he was trying to see how many Legos would fit up his nose? (Six of the small blocks; do not ask me how I know this).
Fortunately, I found him nestled quietly on the couch with a giant book about Santa Claus, reading by the soft glow of the Christmas tree.
"Mom!" he said, "You know how we sometimes see a man who looks like Santa walking down the street?"
"Um, yes?" I said.
"Well, this book says it might actually be the real Santa! It says Santa sometimes does that, and he leaves his red suit at home, so no one will recognize him!" And then he buried himself in the book again.
It was such a sweet moment, that I couldn't resist snapping a photo with my phone. The best part is that he was so entranced he didn't even notice:
Thank you, Santa. You reminded me tonight of life's truly important things - like the wonder of a little boy who believes in Christmas magic with his whole heart. I hope he always does. I hope I always do, too.
How sweet! What book was it? I'd love a copy for my kids!
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