I used to think of us as one of those picture-perfect families—maybe a little sentimental, maybe a little over the top, but always filled with love. After twelve years of marriage, my husband Hayden still tucks love notes into my coffee mug, and our daughter Mya has a way of asking wide-eyed questions that make you stop and see the world through fresh wonder. Every December, I pour myself into making the holidays magical for her.
When she was five, I turned our living room into a snow globe—twinkle lights wrapped around every plant, soft cotton batting scattered like snowdrifts, and Mya spinning in the middle as if she’d stepped into another world. Last year, she led our neighborhood caroling group in “Rudolph” and whispered afterward, “This is the best Christmas ever,” as though I’d handed her the moon.
This Christmas, I wanted to outdo myself. Beneath the tree, wrapped in shimmering gold paper, waited tickets to The Nutcracker. I could already picture her face lighting up when she opened them. In the days before Christmas, she was her usual curious self. While decorating, she asked, “How do Santa’s reindeer fly so long without getting tired? Even magical reindeer must need a rest.” I told her Santa takes good care of them. She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Do they get sandwiches too? Like how Daddy likes turkey but you like chicken?”
At the mall, she climbed into Santa’s lap and earnestly suggested he feed the reindeer sandwiches. We laughed—never realizing how much that idea would matter.
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