scribblechic

I am always surprised by the extraneous ornament or forgotten keepsake that escapes my efforts to contain holiday trappings before welcoming in the New Year. Perhaps my haste makes this inevitable, still the sight of these items stings with an irritation that contradicts the sentiment that accompanies their unpacking. I am similarly unforgiving of holiday songs and movies that sneak uninvited into January, trespassers leaving footprints on an otherwise pristine calendar.

Last Thursday, my daughter invited Christmas to breakfast in the form of a question:

Mom, remember before Christmas when you would remind us to be good because Santa only comes for good boys and girls? Well, I was just thinking that we really aren’t that good and maybe that means that Santa isn’t real.

There. Smack in the middle of February I was stranded in December, grasping for traces of magic to ward of doubt all the while distracted by my own recognition of my daughter’s awareness. Thankfully her big brother was quick to lend reassurance giving me a moment to absorb the simple reality that both children are maturing into the very perimeter of childhood  faith in fantasy, making me relax my guard against lingering holiday leftovers.

Tagged: Children, Holidays, Musings