Christmas miracle
Why I'm cool misleading my kids about Santa.
My deep-thinking, thoughtful seven-year-old likes to lob thorny questions from the back seat, as that seems to be where he does his most intense ruminating. Sometimes it’s easy (“What does that button do?”), sometimes it’s funny (it always involves poop), and sometimes it’s the classic why-do-you-have-to-ask-that question like “How can I be sure Heaven exists?” or “Is God real?” Actually, these last ones are shockingly easy to answer, as I just say solemnly, “All that matters is what you believe.”
Now, I find the notion that the world evolved over billions of years miraculous, and much more inspiring than the thought some omniscient Dumbledore zap-zap-zapped everything into existence. Of course, I’m never laying that answer on my kids, because it’s not my place to substitute my opinion for their critical thinking.
Except when it comes to Santa.
When I was in my late 20s, roughly 15 B.C. (before children), I had a pretty hard line on the Santa question. “No,” I would declare seriously, “I’m not going to pretend there’s a Santa. Some imaginary pot-bellied dude isn’t getting the credit—my kids will know the presents came from their parents.”
Oh, the naiveté.
I love the whole Santa charade, and I have long discussions with my sons about every element of his magical journey. Here’s what we’ve established:
All those Santas you see around town are indeed fake, as the real Santa is far too busy sorting nice and naughty kids, overseeing toy production, and ensuring the sleigh is in tip-top condition
Only kids can see Santa but no one ever has because they must be asleep to get presents, a status confirmed in advance by a squad of elves who do reconnaissance, kinda like a pint-sized Secret Service
Santa’s able to get to every house on the planet in a single day because he has the ability to bend time (just like Tom Hanks’ conductor in The Polar Express. Do your best to ignore the creepy-looking elves who appear to be on work release)
He prefers chimneys, maybe for sentimental reasons, and also because the chimney in their mum’s home happens to be right near the tree. But Santa will slip through a sliding door or window—whatever it takes to get the job done
Parents can confirm present requests via email or text but—and this is important—you’re never guaranteed to get exactly what you want because, at the end of the day, only Santa knows what you truly need
As a parent, it’s hilarious and absurd and makes my kids giddy with excitement. And yes, there’s a nagging sense that I’ll be sad when they know the truth as well as a very, very slight nagging sense of “is it cool to lie to my kids?” But I place the Santa lie in the same category as the Easter bunny and leprechauns—harmless and magical and unlikely to be therapy inducing.
Apparently, though, it’s not the same for everyone. My nagging sense of guilt was pricked last week by a letter to the New York Times’ The Ethicist column, where someone was grappling with “keeping up a ruse” about Santa, having vowed to be as truthful to her children as possible. The correspondent also noted her own pain when she learned the truth. “As a child, I was flummoxed and hurt when I realized the truth about Santa,” she wrote. “When I confronted my mother, she would neither admit the truth nor explain why she’d partaken in the yearslong charade.”
The Ethicist (New York University professor Kwame Anthony Appiah) responded by noting both the limits of radical honesty (you don’t tell your grandparents you actually hate their gift) and the benefits of pretend play for young children, but admitted there’s a special Santa clause.
“When parents talk to their young children about the Midnight Sleigher, there’s typically a glint in their eye, and a certain amount of mugging,” he wrote. “And so, when their children figure out that Santa is an imaginary character, they can feel as if they’re finally in on the game, not as if they’ve been cruelly betrayed.”
Now, the wrinkle here is the correspondent’s experience makes it hard to convey that sense of play. Appiah’s solution is a step beyond my response to Heaven and God questions, recommending the writer say to her son, “I don’t believe in Santa Claus, but millions do.”
I don’t recall ever actually asking my parents about Santa’s existence, even long after the jig was up. I suspect it’s because I didn’t want the magic to end—after all, you’re getting gifts! So, there’s an incentive to just chuckle to yourself and accept the delivery route that bends all rules of space and time, especially as you have the added bonus of now being in on the joke. For my elder son, there will be the even bigger bonus of being able to revel in keeping his younger brother in the dark, at least until there’s an inevitable sibling brawl and he blurts out “Oh yeah? Well Santa’s not real!” We all know it’s gonna happen.
So, while I won’t be setting out cookies and milk this year—we’ve already determined Santa will only visit my boys at their mum’s house, as that’s where they’ll be on Christmas Eve—you can bet they’ll be opening presents direct from that workshop at the North Pole for as long as I can get away with it. And when the truth finally emerges from some loudmouth kid on the playground, I’ll be armed with the perfect response: “All that matters is what you believe.”
Happy holidays!
A note about whatever this is …
After writing a few thousand articles for newspapers and magazines, I spent a long time trying a bunch of other stuff. I guess I figured what came (relatively) easily must by definition be less valuable, so I wandered in the corporate wilderness, becoming increasingly frustrated and doing work that felt increasingly lousy.
Sometimes with age comes wisdom, and I’ve realized finding something (relatively) easy ain’t a bad thing. So, this is a space where I’m resurrecting writing for myself, on topics weird and wild and wonderful.
Posts will appear when the mood takes me, but I do try to be consistently inconsistent—sometimes it’ll be a couple of days between drinks; sometimes a week. But if you subscribe, you’ll get a email letting you know I’m ranting. Again.