My 26 year old is crazy, we let her believe in Santa Claus

I was initially against pitching Santa to my kids. I think it’s ugly to hype a concept that will end up disappointing them deeply. But I fell into the hole, and so the myth continued for another generation. It wasn’t the first or last time I ignored my gut and bowed to outside pressure, but it’s one I still regret. Little.

There are the aspects of parenting you’re sure you’ll be good at, principles you think you’ll never undermine. But decision making is rarely that simple. I thought my partner and I would be on the same page about this, but he was adamant that Santa was what made Christmas special, especially in a secular family like ours. I turned to my sister, a practical primary school teacher, hoping she would agree with me. She asked if I planned to raise my children in a world barren of magic and awe. Practice.

So I caved.

It is strange to lie to your children. Not that I think we should give them the unvarnished truth before they are ready, but aren’t we telling them over and over that honesty is the way to go? Then we turn around and spin tales of toothy fairies and all-knowing old men breaking into their homes to leave them gifts – all the while knowing that one day we’ll be found out and it will break their hearts (albeit a little bit).

My oldest was one of those kids who embraced magic in all its forms. Fairies, the Great Pumpkin, the Easter Bunny, and the Hogwarts staff were not just real, but deeply loved members of her extended family. It wasn’t surprising since she held on to her belief in Santa long after her peers, and even her little sister, had let it go.

Everyone in her class had come to terms with the myth of Santa Claus. Perhaps older siblings had guessed them; perhaps they had found that characters seen only in books and on television were too good to be true. But my child believed with the fervor of a child who had already had some of his finest assumptions shattered. She had been forced to leave her first home and her sanctuary for a life of traveling between the homes of her divorced parents. She held fast to her belief that some good things survived.

I did my best to keep the lie alive. My only real concession to my conscience was to ignore Santa himself and give all the credit to his wife, so that every year there was at least one present for each child from Mrs. Claus. I painstakingly wrote the mark with my left hand to hide my writing. I began to see why parents like to perpetuate the myth; it’s kind of fun to cheat on your kids, although it still doesn’t feel right to me.

Then one day my dear child looked me in the eye and asked the dreaded question, “Is Santa Claus real?” I had to tell her the truth, but in a moment of self-preservation, I did what so many parents do: I was ambiguous.

“Well, there’s not really a guy flying around bringing gifts. Santa Claus is the spirit of Christmas, to spread love and joy. But he is more of an idea than a real thing.” Or something along those lines. I couldn’t quite bring myself to say, “Yeah, that guy you’re so obsessed with? Not real. Sorry for the misunderstanding!” I mean it had to happen to her at some point in her dating life, why did her bubble burst at age 10?

It’s been years and she’s still not quite over it. As a somewhat indolent young adult, she is determined not to make the same mistake with her own future children. She loves all the trappings of Christmas (and the other holidays; her Halloween parties are legendary), but is determined to embrace the magic without introducing a fantasy that will end in tears.

And me? I am relieved. I don’t have to smile and lie to another generation of children who dread the day they look at me with eyes full of accusation and pain. Am I against magic? No way. I just keep it where it belongs, in a shroud of mystery and wonder. I don’t need a figurehead to believe in the miraculous. It is all around us all the time. Opening a child’s eyes to the enchantment of the real world feels much more rewarding than investing in yet another disappointing hero.

Julia Williamson is based in Portland, OR. She is a freelance writer, a tidy stomach and spends a lot of time cursing the rain.