I’ve got a sneaking suspicion Evie doubts the existence of Santa.  She’s asked me on more than one occasion if he is real.  She informed me that the Santa at the mall is not the “real” Santa but an imposter dressed as Santa.

Y’all, this can’t be my fault.  I am all about the make-believe.

Today, we were watching the opening scene in Brave where the “meanie” bear tries to attack Merida’s family.  Merida’s dad, King Fergus, bravely charges the bear while her mother grabs the little princess up and rides her away on their horse to safety.  I told Evie that her daddy would do the same, protect us from “meanie” bears, and I would whisk her away on our noble steed.

“Mom,” she replied, “it isn’t real.  It isn’t real, Mom.”

First of all: “Mom.”  I wasn’t expecting “Mom” until at least fourteen.  This has been going on for some time now, and I don’t like it.  Even Daddy is sometimes “Dad”.  What?  My name is “Mommy,” madam, and, no, you can’t borrow the car this weekend.

Second, your Uncle Walt just rolled over in his grave.  That dear, sweet man, who spent his life building an entire empire out of what isn’t “real,” doesn’t deserve bored, eye-rolley declarations of fact from a four-year-old.  You are dangerously close to opening your closet door one fine morning to find all your princess dresses have disappeared in a cloud of pixie dust, and then we gonna find out what’s real.

Perhaps it’s not your fault.  You are a child of the 21st century.  You live in a post-modern world of cold technology:  657 “friends,” marriages arranged by a software program and conversations limited to 280 characters, all culminating in a global nuclear meltdown followed by zombie apocalypse.

Bummer.

Santa is real, Evie.  And so is Tinker Bell, the tooth fairy, leprechauns, magic bunnies who leave candy in pink baskets and clouds that make the shape of Princess Jasmine’s shoe just for you.  It’s all as real as you want for as long as you want.

“Why, Mom?”

“Why not, Evie?”

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