Courtesy of the author
There are certain parenting moments that you know are coming, but that doesn't always mean you're prepared for when they do. On a December evening around the dinner table, my 8-year-old son looked over at me and said, "Mom." I could tell he was serious by his tone and required my eye contact, so I met his gaze. "Mom. Mom," he kept repeating himself. "Yes?" I encouraged him, my entire world paused for what might come next.
"Mom. Tell me the truth. Tell me the truth, OK?" I agreed, and he proceeded with, "Are you Santa?" I held his gaze, deciding in mere seconds whether or not I would violate his trust, and said, "Yes," as gently as I could. He thought about this, not appearing to be as crushed as I had once feared he'd be.
"So you've been lying to me?" he concluded, our meal officially on hold for this pivotal parenting moment. "Well, no, not exactly." I had to think quickly on my feet now. "But you're not Santa," he started. The situation was deteriorating rapidly as I formulated how much of the truth I was going to tell him. The whole truth, and nothing but the truth?
"Well honey, not everyone has parents who can be Santa, and Santa couldn't possibly visit everyone in one night, so the parents that can, help him." I held my breath. "So some kids don't get presents?" He was most visibly distressed by this tidbit, the puzzle pieces of the great Santa hoax falling together for him.
"Well, Santa was real, you know: St. Nick." I said this quite confidently, as he already knew all about Saint Nicholas, having been born on Saint Nicholas Day; Saint Nicholas was the patron saint of children, and legend has it, a generous gift-giving figure.
"But Santa's not real," he said pointedly. "Well, I'd like to think that there is a Santa for the kids who don't have parents like you have," I blurted out, realizing that in my 30-plus years of age, I wasn't lying.
It was no longer just a kitschy Christmas saying on decorative pillows and old-timey wooden signs; for me, this was true, I believe. My son weighed this. "But that's what you believe," he accused me. "Yes, it's what I believe… but you can believe what you believe." With this, he returned to his dinner, and as he seemed fine, I was pretty confident in how I had handled his questioning. "Nailed it," I thought, followed by, "Those little farts in school ruining Santa."
"So you're my Santa?" he asked conclusively, looking to seal the revelation. "Yes," I confirmed.
In the weeks to come, I expected him to lash out against Christmas Eve and activities like leaving out cookies and milk and sprinkling reindeer food on the lawn.
But he still wrote his letter, and I still wrapped Santa's gift in special paper, unique from all of the other gifts under the tree. When Christmas morning came, he dug through Santa's bucket, hollering and hooting, with me asking him what Santa brought him. He held up his toys in exultation for all of us to see, not quite believing but choosing to buy into it all.
Courtesy of the author
I saw that his confrontation hadn't ever really been about Santa at all. It was a test to see whether or not his mother would tell him the truth. During that fateful Santa conversation, as he bore into my eyeballs with a need for me not to let him down, I knew that it mattered to him to be honest.
At that moment, we each got the best gift of all: me knowing that when he's older, he'll come to me in a crisis, and he knowing that I'll meet his quandary with as much importance as he feels it is.
