Sophie is terrified of Santa Claus.

Either that, or she’s completely full of shit.

We’re less than a day out from Christmas, and I’m no closer to knowing the truth than I was the day after Thanksgiving. Yesterday we drove around visiting friends — exchanging gifts, admiring trees, sipping festive beverages — and Sophie talked non-stop about her birthday party.

Her birthday is in May. She’ll be 14 — and that might have something to do with it.

In the letter she finally decided to write (well, text) she asked Santa for “pads for my face and pads for my period” and she keeps asking if Santa knows she is a woman.

That makes me laugh (behind my hand, I don’t let her see) but I wonder if Sophie is less afraid of Santa and more worried about growing up? She’s embraced puberty with such gusto, it’s hard to imagine. But I don’t have an explanation for this anxiety. She’s a control freak and she knows I love Christmas — it could simply be that.

Or it could be that she really is afraid of a creepy old man sneaking into her bedroom. (Trust me, we assure her every year that he’ll stick to the fireplace area and there’s never been evidence to the contrary.)

I worry that it might be more, and clearly I’m not equipped to address it.

Last night I came home from one last trip to Target to two weeping girls. Annabelle, I get. “Christmas is almost over!” she said, the tears spilling. I feel the same way, preparing days in advance for the inevitable letdown of December 26.

But Sophie’s clearly counting the days till Christmas is over — turning off the holiday music, not even interested (much) in gifts — and as a person who makes holiday terrariums and freaked when I saw that Target was selling Hershey kisses that look like Santa hats — I can’t relate to that at all.

I’ve got one more day to shake some holiday spirit into her, and I intend to try. Hard.

As for me? All I want for Christmas is a peek inside that kid’s brain.