Do You Believe in Magic?

Thanksgiving a few years back

None of my eight grandchildren believe in Santa Claus. Never have. Their parents taught them from the cradle that Santa is just a Red Cheeked Belly Full of Jelly kinda fun we pretend at Christmas-time. As children, I taught their parents the same thing. I wanted their tender hearts to focus on the real reason for the season, wanted them to be untainted by the commercialism Christmas brings and I wanted to save the postage it takes to mail letters full of hope to a non-existent fat man in the North Pole. So sue me. 

But I dearly love Christmas. I have nothing but happy memories of every Christmas I've ever had...and that's a whole lotta candy canes and mistletoe under my belt. And now that I'm an aged parent and doting gram, I find that my neck is not as stiff as it once was.  I've softened in my old age. I've mellowed. I finally believe in Tinkerbell, happily ever after and even Santa Claus. I tease the children every Christmas. " O what is Santa going to bring you? You know Santa sees you when you're sleeping, don't you?" The older ones roll their eyes at me and go back to their texting. The rest of them briefly protest, then roll on the floor laughing. 

Except for Ryan.

Ryan is eight and he puts a unique kind of sparkle in my Christmas heart. The other day I whispered in his ear "You're going to have a good Christmas this year". His eyes got big as saucers and he whispered back "how do you know." "Because" I announced to the whole room, " I was on the phone yesterday talking to Santa. I asked him if Ryan Davidson was on the Naughty list or the Nice list". Ryan patiently but rotely reminded me, "pfft! Gram, Santa's not real!" The other kids in the room shook their heads and went back to watching TV. But Rye kept his eyes on my

Ryan and Me

face, waiting for me to continue. "So I was talking to Santa, right? When I asked him about you..." I could see the skepticism behind his eyes, but I could also see a sliver of eager anticipation. A very small glimmer of excitement and hope that what I was saying could really be true. Oh how he wanted it to be true. "Yeah I could hear Santa's fingers clickety clacking on his computer keyboard, looking up your name." A quiet scoff from Ryan but I continued "At first he couldn't find you on the Nice list. "At this point my daughter looked at Ryan sideways and interrupted "Probably because of all those times he forgot to turn in his homework". Ryan was slightly worried at this and looked back to me for support. "Yeah," I said after giving his mom the stink-eye, "that homework issue came up. But I told Santa that Ryan is the nicest, sweetest, most loving boy I know and he deserves to be on the Nice List—and Santa agreed!" Ryan's face lit up like the White House Christmas tree. He did a little jig halfway across the room before Reason—that hateful Reason—got ahold of him. He stopped mid leap, turned around and looked at me with a sigh and narrowed eyes and reiterated, "Gram. Santa is NOT real". But I saw it. I saw the Christmas sparkle in his eyes before he succumbed to reality. It was fleeting but it was there. And that is all the Christmas magic I need.