I'm always happy my parents played along to the whole "Santa" thing.

Sometimes, as I'm preparing for the magic of the season, I have to remind myself that he's not real. I have to remind myself that it's my parents I should be trying to impress with my good grades, good graces, and a good attitude, not a fat guy with a beard who is somehow monitoring my behavior. In some ways, I feel like I still believe in Santa. And even if it is a lie, it's a good one. Why? Because it's a lie that made me believe.

I believe in Christmas lights.

Not the twinkly, obnoxious LED ones that say, "Everyone look at my house if you want to get blinded." The twinkly, simple white strands that look like stars plucked right from the sky lining farmhouse fences. The kind that makes you turn down side streets, even if you weren't driving in that direction. I believe in icicle lights dangling from front porches.

I believe in Christmas cookies. Store bought ones can't go into the same category. The kind that you can taste the butter, fat, and love. The kind that makes calories not count.

I believe in wreaths. Not the "we're too lazy to put up lights so this will have to do kind," but the kind that smells like evergreen and dawn poinsettias. Wreaths should be your Christmas tree's trusty sidekick. The wreaths that line shopping mall parking lots, making the battle for a spot a little more bearable during the season.

I believe in Christmas trees. I believe in hot chocolate and pajamas and "The Grinch." I believe in waking up to the smell of french toast and the sound of crinkling wrapping paper. I certainly believe in presents.

And most of all, I believe in Santa Clause. I believe in the beard, the climbing down the chimney, the elves, the reindeer, and even the crumbs he leaves behind from the cookies your parents ate every year.

I believe in Santa Clause because no myth has ever made me feel so alive.