Oh Santa. You big jolly robust lie. Thanks for the memories. I think.
Last night my almost eight year old had his world crash down around him. He discovered the truth about Santa. There is no cute discovery story here. I didn’t get to write a nice letter telling him about the magic of the holidays. I didn’t get to ease him into this. It was abrupt and frankly ugly.
He looked over my shoulder while I was tackling work stuff and happened to see a document I designed. Working mom life crashed with regular mom life. It was messy with shattered glass and tears and sadness.
He caught a glimpse of a letter to the boys from the elves. And I like to design things, so it wasn’t just in a word doc. No it had all the flair of me, perfectly laid out in a design program. And he saw it. There was no going back.
I tried. I tried to skirt the issue. I tried to ask what he believes in his heart. I tried to say I didn’t buy the elves this year. He caught the this year part. He wouldn’t believe that he had just imagined this document. He knew what he saw. He demanded the truth. Finally, I broke down, unable to lie any more, unable to clean up this mess of mine. I gave him the truth.
Then he collapsed into a hysterical mess. “There is no Santa and that means there is no Christmas.” And I felt like I’d failed as a parent. I hugged and rocked and reassured. I told him the story of how I found out. I told him this means we have a secret that’s just ours. His brother doesn’t know.
I reassured him he still gets the gifts. “Christmas isn’t about gifts!” He shouted back.
I asked if he understood that this means I’ve done the magic and that means that I love him so much that I’ve tirelessly created all of these things all these years.
Almost eight year olds can’t reason like that in the midst of world crushing news. Can adults even? Doubtful.
I left it for a couple hours. We did homework together. We chatted, about other non-Santa related things. And then it was bedtime. That gloriously difficult time of the night. The steep hill at the end of the marathon. Each boy headed to their respective room. The little one full of tantrums and pleas for never going to sleep and more water and kisses and mama mama mama mamas. The big one, patient and waiting, getting himself changed and brushed and situated.
The big one walked out of his room, requesting his song and hug. I was standing in front of the elves. The almost eight year old said, “I wish I could touch the elves.” The little one opened his door. The big one scurried back to his room. “Mama! Mama! MAMA!” The little one shouted. I urged him to get back in his room. He begrudgingly closed his door.
“Jackson, come here,” I whisper yelled. His bare feet scuffling across the wood planks, stopping abruptly in front of me. “Go ahead. Touch the elves.”
His face lit up, his eyes widened as far as they could. His eyebrow raise made me jealous. “Really?”
“Go ahead. You know. With age comes privileges like this. It’s our secret and now you know and now you can touch them. Plus. This is our game now. I’m going to make it hard to find them. And only we will know.”
He picked them up and turned them around, taking their hats off, playing with their outfits. His fingers gently moving across the felt fabric. His smiled spread across his perfectly smooth face, his dimples deep-set in his cheeks, his eyes aglow. He was beaming and happy and the magic of Christmas hovered all around his string bean body.
“Did you want to choose their outfits for tomorrow?” I asked.
“What? Outfits? You have outfits?” He was shocked.
“She’s been holding out on you. She has a whole stash,” my husband chimed in.
Then we sat on his bed, after closing the door, in secret hushed tones I showed him where they were stored and we went through each piece of clothing, discussing the outfits. He made his choice. A Christmas tree costume for his and a Candy Cane outfit for his brother’s. He requested I order a tiny soccer ball for another outfit. He went to bed happy and excited. His tears of heartbreak dried and gone, replaced by the excitement of our new tradition. Our secret.
And maybe, hopefully, the thought that growing up isn’t so bad after all. It’s just different.
Nicole M. VandeBoom 