“One time I saw his reindeer sitting beside my window,” Catherine explained with all seriousness, “I saw Rudolph and Prancer, but I didn’t see Santa because he was already coming down my chimney.” I awed with fake amazement knowing perfectly well of Santa’s phony existence. I couldn’t help but laugh a little as she pressed on with her story insisting that Santa must have forgotten that she was awake because she heard him enter the house. “The whole time Rudolph was staring into my window and I tried to feed him a carrot but he wouldn’t eat it!” She is only five years old. She’s so young and so blissfully gullible to the tale of Santa and his yearly sleigh ride across the world. She doesn’t wonder how he manages to travel to every child’s house in the mere twelve hours of the night. She doesn’t care to question how he packs all of his presents onto a sleigh and makes a reindeer fly. All she knows is her letter to Santa must have made it to the North Pole. How else would the presents she’s been begging her parents for end up under the tree on Christmas morning? I listen to her story with awe and realize that I can’t remember the time I stopped believing in Santa Claus. Why couldn’t I remember the moment I stopped believing? “What are you asking Santa for Christmas?” she innocently asks. “Oh, not much. I’m trying to figure out what my sister and brother want first” I honestly reply. To see her so blissfully innocent to the truth of Santa made me laugh for some reason, yet I salute her persistence to believe. After all sometimes believing is not as easy as little girls make it seem.