By Kerry Williamson.
My belief in Santa has never faltered.
I know it’s unlikely, and that everything points to the impossibility of his existence.
I know it’s something you are supposed to grow out of, that the person we go to visit in Bonnie Doon Mall every December is really just an old guy in a moth-bitten red suit.
I know that there’s no way all of those toys are crafted by hand (but I do wonder if all those Made in China stickers are put there just to throw us off).
And, I know that it was my Mum who bought me that red HMX 500 bike when I was seven, despite her ongoing claims that it was really him.
(Although, to be honest, I really don’t think she could afford it, and there’s absolutely no way she could have hidden that bike from me. I looked everywhere).
For me, there are some things that don’t need to be explained. The thought that magic exists is enough.
There are times that facts and evidence and solid, scientific arguments are helpful (say, during a Presidential election).
But a suspension of belief can be a good thing. There’s something wonderful about Christmas, something incredible and special and perfect, when you know Santa is real and that he is there for all of us.
He is the one responsible for making our kids vibrate with joy and excitement the night before, when they hear bells outside their window.
He is the one who can take credit for that look of wonder on sleep-filled faces, as those kids come down the stairs and see pillowcases stuffed with underpants and shiny things.
And he is the one that makes me smile, when I see that the glass of milk on the hearth has been emptied, and that the carrots left out for the reindeer have been chewed to gnarled stubs.
Winter is tough. Christmas is not always easy (especially when most of your family live half a world away). Old Man Winter’s grasp is a long one.
But believing in Santa makes it easier. Christmas is so much better when you believe.