It’s December 8th and I still don’t have a Christmas tree.

I know. It’s practically criminal at this point. It’s at the top of my To-do list for tomorrow. I need to infuse a little holiday cheer into my life. Sort of like an intravenous dose of holly and mistletoe. I mean…you know who is watching.

Miracle on 34th StreetNo, not my husband. Santa!

And if I expect to get anything other than coal in my stockings this Christmas, I need to stop crying and pouting! I need to wipe that sour Grinchy frown from my face! I need to rinse the Bah Humbug out of my mouth! I need to put on Miracle on 34th street and remind myself Kris Kringle is as real as I want him to be.

I wrote about this last year…

I had a debate with some friends about the age children should be told the truth about Santa. And if Santa is even relevant in this day and age.

I believed in Santa Claus as a child.

It is one of the strongest, most vivid memories I have from childhood. In fact, if I think back, I could probably recall at least one present from each year I believed. Santa Claus is quite simply the definition of the “magic” of childhood. I think I knew the truth long before it was confirmed, but I didn’t want to stop believing, so I held on for as long as I could. I was almost twelve when I finally had the indisputable proof. But because my younger sister still believed, I was able to hold on to the magic for a few more years through her.

And that is what it is all about for me. The magic. It’s something every child should feel and every adult wishes they could recapture.

Finding out there is no Santa Claus is the first official step away from childhood. And it’s a steep step most of us spend the rest of our lives trying to back track. At least a little. Even if it’s just once a year.

While my children were little, because of their belief in Santa Claus, my house was again filled with the magic of Christmas. It wasn’t quite the same as when I was a child, but it is the closest I have ever come to the wonderment from my childhood.

It certainly doesn’t stop me from trying to recapture it each year. I still watch the classic Christmas specials like Rudolph, Frosty, and Charlie Brown. I immerse myself in the twinkling lights, Christmas carols, and frosted cookies until my memories swirl around me like a tornado of snowflakes on Christmas Eve and Santa Claus becomes real again.

When my children asked me, so many years ago, if Santa was real, I told them Santa was as real as we believed he was. I still consider this to be the truth.

Christmas is the one time of year when believing in magic is not just for children… because Santa real if you believe.

And I believe in Santa Claus.

Until the next time…I’ll be making my list and checking in twice (and getting a Christmas tree pronto!)

Erica Lucke DeanWriters.

We’re a strange bunch. Get a group of us together on a social network and the conversations run the gamut from pregnancy symptoms and Christmas lights all the way to Santa’s fertility (don’t ask…you really don’t want to know).

You do? You really want to know?

Ok…so one writer tells us she asked Santa to bring her a healthy pregnancy, and another writer says, “don’t you think your husband should be the one getting you pregnant…not Santa?” Oh sure, she was being funny. But the next thing you know there is an entire conversation revolving around the idea of Santa getting someone pregnant on Christmas Eve. The religious ramifications notwithstanding, this was a funny conversation. I mean…how old is Santa? Wouldn’t he need a heaping dose of Viagra to get his North Pole to work?

But I digress.

This was a bunch of women. We don’t really get into the dirty stuff. Lela Gwenn by Matt Slentz

Ok, I’m lying. We do. But the whole talk of pregnancy and the sticky gooey realities of that were too much for some of the single girls in the bunch, so we changed the topic to something much more demure.

Boobs.

A writer who would not be namedBut like I said…this was a bunch of women. We’re supposed to be beyond the childish games played by men. We don’t get into a pissing match. We don’t pull out the ruler and compare dimensions!

Yep…lying again. We totally do.

What started out as a fun exchange about boobs turned into a photo fest where we posted pictures of ourselves in various stages of exposure. Nothing racy mind you…we’re writers after all. We have a deep-seated need to leave something to the imagination. Basically, below the waist was out of bounds. Everything above was fair game.

Ciara BallintyneI’m kidding. We just compared cleavage. But the singular guy in our little tit-a-tit was browsing the boob pictures like a kid checking out Christmas lights displays. I’m pretty sure I could actually see his mooning face via his comments. “OH. MY. GOD.” And, “AMAZING.” Oh and, “It really is Christmas!”

It’s like he was following the bouncing ball and singing along to a song in his own head… “Silver bells…Silver bells…It’s Christmastime, hey look…titties!”

Guys. They really are pretty basic, aren’t they? You just have to follow one simple rule to get by…in case of emergency, flash boobs!

Until the next time…I’ll be working on a challenge blog! Topics anyone?