The burning question
Wow. Uh. . . Where's my mommy manual? Right. There isn't one. Damn. So I say, "Well, first of all, I don't know what the kids are saying at school, honey, but Santa does exist—mostly in your heart—but he works in many, many ways and it's up to you to believe." Then I told her about how the kids at my school were telling me there was no Santa, but then I went to the mall and saw him and knew he was real because his beard wasn't that fake white color, but a real, yellowish, pulleable beard. And I told her—again—we can all believe, or not believe, if we want to.
She didn't say much, so I'm not sure if my speech was a futile effort, or a string of masterful persuasion, or if she really wasn't listening at all because Mario Batali was smashing a pile of crawfish with a mallet, and that's probably more interesting than hearing about: blah, blah, Santa, mall, blah, blah, believe, blah, blah, blah.
I kind of hope it worked and she still believes. I believe in Santa. And always will. You know how I feel—Santa isn't one color, one person, in one state or country, he's many, many people and he brings more than one kind of present, and the best gifts are those you can't see. No one will ever take Santa away from me. I will die an old lady and still believe. So there.
And I hope all the Julia's out there in the world believe, too. It sucks not having things to believe in. The world is hard and cold, money is tight, people are hitting each other over the head, like Mario with that mallet, all in an effort to excrete some sort of understanding of how the world works. I think that sometimes the harder you look, the less you see. The more you try to find meaning, the less meaningful the world becomes. Magic is a simple organism. Happiness needs no explanation. It's best to leave your third eye open and your real eyes averted—just a little. Just enough for a miracle, or two, to slip in.
HO. HO. HO.