An exchange in the etsy forums reminded me of Christmases past. One Christmas in particular. It was when we lived in Bedford MA, and I was but a small blot. My brothers and myself (in I'm sure a squeaky supportive role as angst miester) had constructed a 3 story tree house. The 3rd story was a bit sketchy... in my sketchy memory... but what happened was painted like a Charles Dickens scene in my very small play dough mind...
SANTA KNOCKED THE TREE HOUSE DOWN! We woke up, Christmas morning, to find evidence of Santa's overdoing of the spiked milk and cookies in our back yard. There were sled tracks leading up to the shambles of our once proud and shakey edifice.... The tree house was pile on the ground, rather than a pile in the air. It was MAJIC!
I'm a middle aged lady, with a small though supportive beer belly (supportive of the Patriots, that is), and I've never really sought clarification on what happened that night, Christmas Eve, a million years ago. Not sure I want to. I don't know much about kids... but've heard different things like what you should tell them or not or whatever. But ya know? Sled marks to a smashed tree house rocked. Really. It was a fine silliness to believe in, for a while.
*oh. I forgot the clincher! Santa also left a note apologizing for knocking our tree house down. The stinker!