I struggle more each year with the approach of the Christmas holiday, as I find myself deeper and deeper in the Santa lie. It felt so good at first. When my first son was born more than a decade ago I relished my new role as Santa. Above my desk at work I hung up the card my wife gave me that first year: “First he believes in Santa,” it read. “Then he does not believe in Santa. Then he is Santa.” I loved that last part, the magic in it, the giddy sneaking around with Mrs. Claus after the kids were in bed to fill up the space under the tree. I hung that card above my desk with a special care previously reserved only for stockings. With our kids we put out deer food for Santa’s team. We strained our ears for any jingle, and scanned the skies for any glimpse. We swore we heard a bell, were certain we saw a twinkle. These are the difficult years, now that my eldest son has reached double digits. I know some year soon - perhaps even this one, though I hope not - my son will