When I was a little girl, I often visited the North Pole as Christmas neared.

The trips were always wondrous: Santa’s workshop smelled of sweet pine and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. It bustled with little elves hammering together wooden race cars and painting dollhouses vivid reds and greens.

In a corner warmed by candlelight, Santa and Mrs. Claus checked their list, an unraveled scroll of parchment that seemed a mile long. Just outside, reindeer frolicked in the gentle snowfall, eager to fly the night sky.

The Christmas books I read and animated specials I watched fueled my childhood imagination, which was as vibrant as a candy-covered gingerbread house. All the fantastical visions I had about the holiday were very real to me. With a fragile mix of innocence and hope, I believed.

Christmas was a magical time.

But as I got older and responsibilities grew, my winter wonderland lost a bit of its wonder.

There were grades to maintain in high school and finals to study for in college. There were jobs to report to and bills to pay. There was a career to navigate and a home to manage. Life seemed to be all about adulting, with little room for merrymaking.

Then I had children.

The thing with young children is the holiday is only as special as you make it special for them. In doing so for my three daughters, I found excitement and a familiar warmth in the season again. While there are inevitable moments of madness — the shopping, wrapping and mailing — the overall feeling for our family is a festive one.

Together we decorate our Christmas tree, delighting in rediscovered ornaments crafted with popsicle sticks, glitter glue and school photos. We cuddle for Christmas bedtime stories, including classics that bring me back to cozy places I visited when I was their age.

We drive around our neighborhood, admiring the elaborate inflatables and light displays brightening dozens of front yards. There’s the musical carousel with Disney characters riding round and round, the towering polar bear and the giant gingerbread house surrounded by Minions playing in the snow. The look of both awe and cheer on my daughters’ faces, so genuine and pure, fills my heart.

And their enthusiastic questions about Santa Claus, who is still a mystery in their world, are endearing. It’s impossible not to share their wonder.

How does he know who’s naughty or nice? How can he always see us? How does he wrap all those gifts so fast? How can he travel the world in one night?

As my preschooler recently pondered these questions, her face suddenly brightened.

“Oh, yes,” she said with her little voice, “because he’s magical.”

Merry Christmas to all of you. Especially to my daughters, who have reminded me to hope and believe — in every way imaginable. Thanks to the three of you, Christmas is a magical time again.

“She Speaks” is a weekly column by the women writers of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. Reach Zinaida Serrano at zserrano@staradvertiser.com.