People have been telling me for years I should write. Great advice. Now what should I write? A romance novel? Based on what? A murder mystery? The very thought of anything scary conjures visions of the 2am hallucinatory dream where I wake my husband and have him scour the house because I have seen a lanky man with white hair wandering our hallway. a vision I made the mistake of sharing with my three brothers at Christmas dinner and will likely never live down. How did he not set off the house alarm?

Magic.

I use magic to answer far too many questions from the quizzical minds of my two oldest kids. The tooth fairy, God, Santa Claus. This year, my six year old wondered how Santa could “make” Robert Munsch books. A solid question I thought. I had to stray and let her know that sometimes when something is too difficult to replicate, Santa has to special order specific pieces, have them shipped to the North Pole and then deliver them to us on Christmas morning. Imagine how much extra work that must be for Santa. “You must have been awfully good this year.” How does Santa make cabbage patch dolls? The same cabbage patch doll that my three year old opened Christmas morning with the 25th edition anniversary spoon and proceeded to shove the spoon up her shirt to chest height, wedge the baby’s head up there and mimic a nursing mother feeding her newborn baby. Third cookie. I must add sit-ups to my list of things to do before making time to write anymore.