My 26-Year-Old Is Mad We Let Her Believe In Santa

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

There are those aspects of parenting you’re sure you’ll be good at, principles you think you’ll never subvert. 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, particularly in a secular family like ours. I turned to my sister, a practical elementary school teacher, hoping she’d agree with me. She asked if I was planning to raise my kids in a world barren of magic and awe. Ouch.

So, I caved.

It’s weird to lie to your kids. Not that I think we should give them the unvarnished truth before they’re ready for it, but don’t we tell them over and over that honesty is the way to go? Then we turn around and spin tales of dentally obsessed fairies and omniscient old men who break into their homes to leave them gifts — all the while knowing that we will be found out one day, and it will break their hearts (if only a little).

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 when she clung to her belief in Santa Claus 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. Maybe older siblings had clued them in; maybe they’d figured out that characters only seen in books and on TV were too good to be true. But my kid believed with the fervor of a child who had already had some of her finest assumptions shattered. She’d been forced to leave her first home and sanctuary for a life spent traveling between the homes of her divorced parents. She clung to her faith that some good things survived.

I did my best to keep the lie alive. My only real concession to my conscience was ignoring Santa himself and giving all the credit to his wife, so every year, there was at least one present for each kid from Mrs. Claus. I painstakingly wrote the tag with my left hand to disguise my writing. I started to see why parents like maintaining the myth; it’s kind of fun to trick your kids, though it still doesn’t feel right to me.

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

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

It’s been years, and she’s still not completely over it. As a slightly jaded young adult, she’s 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’m relieved. I won’t have to smile and lie to another generation of kids, dreading 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’s all around us all the time. Opening a child’s eyes to the enchantment of the real world feels way more helpful than investing in yet another disappointing hero.

Julia Williamson is based in Portland, OR. She’s a freelance writer, a decluttering maven, and spends a fair amount of time cursing the rain.