Snippets of Kenzie's conversations from the last week...

"So, Santa lands on the roof. [pause] Okay. And he comes down the chimney. But HOW does he get DOWN?"

"Grampy, is this your downstairs? So, THIS is the fireplace that Santa will come down? How is he going to get out of THAT?"

"If you wanted to go to Santa's house at the North Pole how would you get there?" I told her that Santa would take you. "So, you mean that if I want to go up to Santa's home, he has to [holding finger up to indicate a "one"] get in his sleigh, [two fingers] fly down to my house, I get into his sled and then [three fingers] he takes me all the way back up there?" Yes, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

"How does he dash through the fireplace. I don't know how he does that."

"Santa's coming in the fireplace downstairs? Well, then, he'll have to tiptoe upstairs really quietly to not wake us up and put presents under the tree."

I tried telling her that the red light on top of the water tower was Rudolf's nose. "No, mom, that's just a red light."

Oh, and Grammy, here is a poll of 4500+ people who claim that the average age when a person stops believing in Santa is 8 to 10. You have frequently called me "slow" for not catching on at the ripe age of six, when my best friend Molly spilled the beans and forever lifted the veil of trust to expose the harsh truth of humanity: parents lie. And here I am perpetuating it. Yes, it is our nature, but I still hold a grudge. And I wasn't slow.