So what if I'm on the naughty list?

Try to imagine my shock when there arose a knock at the door last night at 7:30 pm and Santa Claus walked into our house.

There he was, in his beautiful red suit, snowy white beard, and black, shiny boots. He had a fist full of candy canes and began passing them out to my children. He called each one by his or her name. He encouraged good behavior. He inquired after their wishes. He explained the presence of his pickup by pointing out that his reindeer were resting at the North Pole. 

He was everything you've read about him and the physical manifestation of all those stupid Christmas specials we've been watching all season. He was jolly. He was kind. He was merry. My children were delighted.

Except for my four-almost-five-year-old daughter.

After Santa disappeared into the cold, dark night, she turned on me like the Mad Hatter on an empty tea cup.

She stamped her foot and narrowed her eyes at me. She was distrustful, suspicious, incredulous. With an accusatory finger pointed in my direction and a hand on her cocked hip, she began the cross examination.

"Mom! You told me he wasn't real!"

Uhhhhhhh. . .

"You said he was just pretend. But he knew my name!" For a second her voice changed from scolding to dreamy as she wondered, "How did he know my name?"

Then she presented the irrefutable evidence. She held her candy cane up in the air and recounted, "He had a beard! It was white!"

Then with disgusted dejection, "Why did you tell me he wasn't real?"

Ohhhhh, dear. 

I turned to my husband. In tones that were panicked and hushed, I begged him to help me out. "What do I do with this?"

Ever the helpful man, he replied, "Nothing. Just leave it alone."

"What?!?" I asked. "But I don't like these wild accusations flying around that I'm the Christmas Killer!"

Taking his own advice to heart, he didn't respond.

I never came up with the appropriate answer. So I just listened to her intermittent lectures for the rest of the night. I swallowed my pride and anger; I abstained from pointing out all the obvious evidence that I am the reason our house is filled with Christmas cheer; I stammered and reddened and fumed all night. 

And then it came to me. It's time to teach her the truth about Santa Claus.

Come Christmas morning, she'll have her Christmas wish wrapped snugly under the tree with a tag on it that says, "Love, Mom". And in her stocking?

Coal.