“Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” Roald Dahl
One of my favorite authors as a child. Who didn’t love the magic and wonderment of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and James and the Giant Peach?
I think this will be Nick’s last year believing in Santa Claus, and I can’t tell you how sad that makes me. Mystic and I were talking about it this weekend. I love Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and the Halloween Fairy. For a million reasons, but most of all? Because it allows our children to believe in magic. Mystical things. Unexplained goodness. Innocence and wonderment. Pure and unadulterated bliss. And, of course, the occasional rainbow.
Nick has asked a lot of pointed questions about Santa Claus, and is one of just a few believers left in his class. He said he makes sure to look at the handwriting on gift tags (and luckily Mom makes sure to change hers from Santa), and while that could be parents writing the tags, how could the words “North Pole” show up on the Caller ID when they get their annual call from Santa Claus? Thank goodness for SantaSpeaking.com. In the meantime, I’m going to have to be more careful than ever. And I hope that whenever he does put all the pieces together, that he’s not terribly crushed. Or at least as crushed as his mom will be.
Somewhat related, the kids are obsessed with college. Where they will go. What they will study. How far they will be from home. I think a lot of it stems from the fact that both Mystic’s daughter and The Ex’s daughter will be going to college next year.
“Mommy, when I turn four in February, will I have to go to college?” Madeline innocently asked me last week.
Because, dude, she is not ready. Even though she is my three-year-old-going-on-teen, she is a little worried that next year means college.
Um, it doesn’t. I’m all for overachieving, but one year at a time.
They have conversations seemingly daily about what they want to be when they grow up. Madeline still comes back to being a mommy and a doctor, although being a groomer, a babysitter, and a cupcake maker were recently thrown into the mix. Nope, no candlestick maker. Nick circles around the CIA/FBI/Secret Service arenas a lot, peppered by a groomer (both kids love Maxwell’s groomer, can you tell?), a chef, and an artist. One night last week, the kids were underfoot in the kitchen in a megaserious way. I was running late in getting dinner ready, trying to make a batch of rainbow cupcakes for Madeline’s class, and supervise homework duty, and they both decided they wanted to help me cook. I tried my best to shoo them out of the kitchen so I could pick up the pace a bit. “But Mom, it’s your fault. We love your cooking, and we just want to be like you.” Yeah, statements like that pretty much get you your way. And make me feel equal parts guilty and super proud.
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