So there I was, doing something very familiar: reading one of my picturebooks to a classroom full of first-graders enrolled in an after-school program. It being close to Christmas, the book I was reading was suitably seasonal—one I had written, of course, although out of another publishing house, not Roundtable.
When I had finished reading the book, as usual I asked if there were any questions, and as usual the kids who raised their hands mostly offered comments rather than questions. (They have a very liberal concept of “Q&A,”) One of the first must have been a direct descendant of the original Doubting Thomas. He averred, “There is no Santa Claus.”
I jumped in quickly, before he spread his corrosive doubt to the rest of the class. “Of course there’s a Santa Claus!” I said.
Another boy raised his hand, then jumped into the fray without waiting to be called on. “It’s really your parents,” he said.
“Yes,” came a loud voice of support from the back of the room. “Santa is really your parents.”
Voices pro and con Santa’s existence babbled insistently from all quarters, while I tried in vain to be heard over the din in my protests of Santa’s reality, till Miss Rita took command of her class with, “Let’s keep our opinions to ourselves, kids. Quiet, please.”
The kids quieted down, but it was a very saddened author who quickly wrapped up the Q&A session and exited the classroom, book in hand but belief in childhood innocence shaken. How could a bunch of mainly six-year-olds already be skeptics? How could they not believe in Santa?
When I see the joy in little kids’ faces as Christmas approaches…when I hear the responses from strangers at whom I smile as I wish them “Happy Holidays” when I pass them in a public place…when I see the decorations at the entrance to our condo complex…when I hear the Christmas music on my stereo…when I experience the magic in its many forms that is Christmas, how could I not believe in the figure that embodies this wonderful spirit?
Santa IS real. I believe, don’t you?