Santa is real. Oh, sure he is.

He's the one who eats all of the cookies and milk. He's the one who put those all those presents under the tree. Who else could do it?

The proof is in my childhood. I never told my parents what I wanted. My Mom would ask me, "What did you ask Santa for this year?"

I'd tell her, "I told him to get me Megatron or Optimus Prime!"

And it was true. I'd written it in a letter to Santa. My Mom even helped me mail it out, so I know he got it for sure. But I never explicitly told my Mom that I wanted Megatron or Optimus Prime.

I even made sure to write not just "Santa Claus," but "Santa Claus, North Pole." After all, what good is an incomplete address?

My parents couldn't have seen what I'd written in my letter. Only Santa could see it, because it was plainly addressed to him.

Then there were the cookies and milk. My brother and I would put them out for Santa Claus. And sometimes a few extra cookies for his reindeer.

When we'd wake up the next morning, all of the cookies would be gone. And the milk too! Boy, they're thirsty reindeer!

Our parents got us presents too. Their presents were always labeled, "From Mom" or "From Dad." But Santa's presents didn't have any such label. They only said to whom they were for. And that was more proof that it was really Santa.

The night before Christmas, my brother and I would sit in front of the Christmas Tree, warmed by the glow of the bright lights, and wonder how many gifts Santa would bring us. He wouldn't leave us gifts until after Christmas Eve; before then, only our parents' gifts would be under the tree.

We wouldn't say a word. We'd just sit there, wondering if Santa considered us Good or Bad boys.

Then our Dad would whisk us off to bed, telling us that if Santa landed on our roof and see us awake, he'd leave. So we'd race to bed and squeeze our eyes shut, trying oh so hard to fall asleep.

Somewhere, deep at night, I'd swear I could hear the reindeer on our roof. I know for sure that I'd hear him walking down the stairs and over to the tree. I recognized that sound because that's the sound of my Dad walking down the stairs too.

Then, on Christmas morning, my brother and I would race downstairs and jump towards the tree. "Santa came!" we'd shout as we tore into our presents. We'd even see our stockings choke full of candy. Wow, what a glorious site.

So you see, he's real. Santa is real. Just send him a letter and put out some cookies and milk.

Merry Christmas!

. . .

Do you believe in Santa Claus?