"There’s a problem with Christmas," Charlie blurted out on Wednesday after dinner.

He looked troubled. His face was pink and he hid his eyes from Susanne’s with his forearm as if she was Medusa.

"What’s the problem with Christmas?" Susanne asked.

He shook his head.

"Charlie. Tell me. What’s the problem?"

"I can’t say it," he mumbled, his sleeve stuffed in his mouth like a gag.

I heard all of this going down from another room. Realizing where this was heading, I tried to secure the area, making sure the other two kids were safely out of earshot. If they were to come downstairs, I’m not sure what I would have done. Maybe scoop them up and run outside or spray a fire extinguisher at the base of the stairs to create a cloudy diversion.

Susanne pressed the issue.

"Charlie. What is it?"

And then in one quick gasp of words he said it.

"IwanttobelieveinSantabutIcan’t!"

He was upset but clearly relieved to get that off his chest.

It took some craftiness on her part, but Susanne managed to convince Charlie to believe in the big guy, pointing out that Santa’s wrapping paper is always different than the gifts he receives from mom and dad and that it’s normal to have some doubt about things that you don’t ever see.

Like a cure for diabetes, it is easy to have doubt in something you hear a lot about but never see. Sometimes I just want to yell in one quick gasp, "IwanttobelieveinacurebutIcan't.

So here all along we’ve been worried about the girl. She’ll probably believe into her early 20s. This was a definite sneak attack from Charlie. I should have known though. He’s the logical one. I may have to take some extraordinary measures to get this kid believing again. I think I’ll have to get on the roof with hooves or maybe produce a real live elf. Maybe I can borrow my friend's kid.

He has massive ears.