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"I know you said Santa isn't real, but the third graders say he is," our 6-year-old daughter shared with us one evening. This confession took us by surprise.
My husband and I decided early on we were not going to do Santa in our house. We had different reasons. My husband firmly believed in Santa Claus a little too long. When friends discovered his earnest letter in sixth grade, he shrugged it off as something he did for his mom's sake, quietly disavowing his childhood faith at the same time. It's a story that still breaks my cold, Santa-denying heart. Meanwhile, I grew up with a mom who never upheld the legend, and though I tried to pass it along to my youngest brother, I realized quickly how cumbersome the whole charade could be.
My husband and I were uncomfortable convincing our kids of a lie, so we decided to tell them Santa wasn't real. Of course, like all things parenting, especially the ideals you vowed to uphold "before kids," this one was easier said than done.
I worried during my oldest's first year of school — which was at a play-based preschool full of homemade playdough and dress-up accessories — she would tell the other kids. I emphasized to her that other families believe different things, and it is not our place to tell them what to believe.
What began as my desperate attempt at self-preservation and fear of being demonized as "that mom" who ruined the magic of Christmas for a classroom of toddlers with her daughter's brutal honesty, became a gateway to explaining religious and cultural differences. I told her, "We do not shove your beliefs down other people's throats."
My fears were unfounded, thankfully. Our eldest, naturally introverted and more concerned with mastering the monkey bars, didn't share our family's stance on Santa. She took us at our word at his nonexistence.
As the youngest in a Montessori classroom of first through third graders, she overheard the older students discuss their assured belief in Santa. She took the older kids' conviction as a strong case against her parents' nonchalant Santa-is-pretend transparency.
I must confess: There was a moment when I wanted her to believe that Santa was real when she started to question it. For a second, I regretted our calculated, stoic fact-telling. But I took a deep breath and reiterated that her Daddy and I do not think Santa is real, but she is free to believe what feels right to her.
Then we had a second child, and our Disney+-reared pandemic child has no interest in our frank discussions. Santa is as real as Elsa, unicorns, and Tinkerbell's fairy dust — which she saw with her own eyes at her friend's birthday party. I joke that our second is a kid stereotype: candy, toys, princesses — if a child is supposed to enjoy it, she does. I love her contrary, know-it-all assuredness.
Admittedly, our frank discussions with our second child are less earnest than with our first. The conversations are often lacking altogether.
The other night, we watched "The Santa Clause," and our 5-year-old's eyes were big with rapt attention. Occasionally, I prodded her to see what she thought about all of these explanations about Santa. She mainly ignored me.
"If Santa's real in a live-action movie, he's real in real life," she told us.
Our kids have never gone to bed on Christmas Eve with a platter of cookies and a cold glass of milk waiting for jolly old St. Nick. They have never woken on Christmas morning to a bounty of presents attributed to a North Pole-residing miracle worker. We still do gifts come Christmas morning, but my husband and I take all the credit.
Despite that, this year our youngest had me help her write a list for Santa. She told me what she wanted, and I typed it on my laptop so she could get the spelling right. Before she started, she asked me what she could have.
"You can write anything you want," I told her.
"But you won't let me have what I really want," she bemoaned, referencing the Barbie Dreamhouse I'd already eighty-sixed for lack of space.
I briefly pictured surprising her on Christmas morning with the one thing she wanted, but the flicker of fantasy was once again dispelled by my conviction to stay pragmatic with my kids. The fantasy of Santa is a perfectly lovely tradition to share, but ultimately, it's not us.
At that moment, I realized I would continue to struggle to navigate our 5-year-old's certainty. Our simplistic disbelief is no match for her questions. She wants us to tell her she's right, to explain this mystery with adult omniscience. We're learning to let her know we don't have all the answers, but we're there for her no matter what she believes.
