Dad had told me
for three years that my daughter had to know there is no Santa. Suggested she
was playing me.
“How? She’ll
still get the goods when she knows.”
“But she doesn’t know that.”
Ah. A father’s
wisdom. I was a single mom, often broke, but the kid always got what she wanted
from Santa and something from me, too. Maybe Dad was right and she played along
to ensure she got what she wanted, but I believed— that she believed— until the
Christmas she was nine.
As the holiday
approached, she and her friends made lots of Santa jokes, talked about
classmates who said there’s no Santa, and sometimes outright called me Santa
through their giggles.
I was sitting at
the kitchen table one evening when my daughter climbed up on my lap and said,
“I know. Just tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“You. Santa.”
“Really? You
know?”
Eye roll.
I sighed and
told her.
She ran to her
room, dived into bed, rolled to the wall and repeatedly banged her head against
it, all while sobbing, of course.
She screamed
that I was a liar, that she could never trust adults again—You are ALL liars! —and
how could your own mother deceive you
so?
I quietly
explained that Santa is real, he lives in our hearts, it’s a loving tradition,
and all that crap, while feeling like the shittiest mother ever.
It seemed to
calm her. She caught her breath, stopped bawling, and hugged her stuffed rabbit.
Then she bolted
upright, startled, and screamed, “Oh my God, the Easter Bunny!”
Jesus, it was a
long night.
And yes, we had
to cover that, too.
