The Santa Question

"Mom, is there REALLY a Santa Claus?" my seven-year-old son inquired, with that innocent yet incisive gaze that routinely catches me in the "deer in headlights" posture.

Let me start by pointing out: I am a lousy liar. I used to be much better, but since about age 20 it seems I have lost my God-given talent of lying, bold-faced, to those I love. If I had to do it over, I'd definitely practice more--if only for such an occasion as this.

I knew it was coming. He's seven after all and didn't just fall off the turnip truck. He's way too bright for his own good.

"Mom, I did some calculations, and it seems that the reindeer would have to fly 537 miles per hour, not counting toy distribution time, in order for Santa to get to all the houses." (I'm pretty sure the math was off a bit, but you see my point. The boy couldn't possibly NOT suspect.)

Still, you don't expect a direct question from a kid about something like this. And I don't care who you are, you're never prepared. So, being the crummy liar I am, I naturally had to fake an epileptic seizure. It bought me nearly 36 hours.

As soon as he wandered off, and as with all major family issues, I discussed the situation with my husband. To tell or not to tell? Hamlet's soliloquy never covered this one. We decided to stall at least until after Christmas, and let it come up again (or not.) If it did, we'd sing. Or, more aptly - I'd sing. Women's work, this one. And so it was decided.

Decision or no, it didn't sit well. I don't like things done halfway, or waiting on a list to be completed (some list, eh? Wash clothes. File tax return. Tell son the truth about Santa Claus.)

My mother never once admitted the truth of the matter. Even when I was grown and married, a direct "Fess up, Mom!" only yielded a steady, patient, "Of course Santa is real. "

She was a much better mother than I will ever be. Let a cursory handwriting analysis tell the tale - just don't let them hear it from you.

I have friends (as no doubt do you) that never chose to lead their children down the path of the fairy tale fat man. From the very beginning, they taught the true meaning of Christmas, and confide (to drooling, wiggling infants) that Santa is made up, and that parents lie to their children in order to propagate a pagan myth that will eventually lead them to Satan himself, or some such rot. Though if it allows them to sleep in until 8, I might not be so quick to judge.

My advice: Lie from the start, lie big, and stick to your story. Because, folks, I botched it.

Even in this day of wonderful editorials like "Yes Virginia…" and plenty of other sources for sage advice and plagiarize-able speeches. Even after the wonderful example my mother provided.

Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, and for good reason. I was cocky from the birds-and-bees talk a couple months back. Suffering only minor lacerations and possibly a mild concussion from that one, I allowed myself to believe truth is best, and that Max could handle it. My biggest question wasn't "Is he mature enough to understand the parental love behind the myth?" but, rather "Is he mature enough to keep his mouth shut and not ruin it for his little sister?" Which ought to tell you where the maturity problem really lies in our family.

My mistake was that Max had come to me WANTING to believe. It's so much more fun that way, after all. And he came to his one best source of truth in his world - Mom - secretly knowing for himself, but wanting to hear that comfortable lie from me. So he could stand against the barrage of factual data coming from his friends. So he could stay in the womb a little longer. And I let him down.

The actual telling wasn't the most painful part. He took it in a very conspiratorial spirit. It was later that he dealt the blow, "I wish you hadn't told me, Mom. It was more fun to believe."

And so the myths fell one by one. At approximate two-hour intervals. The Easter Bunny. The Tooth Fairy. The Battery Elf (shut up.)

Now I have on my hands not just a small boy whose childhood ideologies have been shattered in a matter of hours, but a boy who isn't buying my admonitions on the likes of gravity, bacteria, or plaque either. "You mean there are little teeny tiny blob-like monsters that I can't see but are at this very moment tunneling holes in my teeth and rotting them from the inside out? Yeah, right Mom. Nice try."

Well you can bet I'm not making the same mistake twice. Abby will never hear the truth from these lips. Let her hear it from her brother.