About a month ago, my son was reading Superfudge by Judy Blume. It’s told from the older brother, Peter’s,
perspective and involves the crazy antics of his little brother, Fudge. It was
so much fun sharing one of my childhood favorites with my son, giggling past
bedtime because he couldn’t put it down. Then we got to “Chapter 10: Santa Who?”
I thought since it was a book for kids, it wouldn’t blatantly say that Santa
wasn’t real. Then I braced myself as he kept reading aloud. I remembered this
book is intended for children older than my son. Children who already know the
truth about Santa. Then it happened. He stopped mid-sentence, made that WHAT
THE FUCK face, and said “WAIT. Santa isn’t real?”
I don’t lie to him about big things. We are a secular family
and I do my best to encourage analytical thinking. This means I don’t shy away
from tough questions. In fact, I never told him Santa was real. It’s something
he picked up from other kids, so I let him believe. I knew eventually his
critical thinking skills would kick in, and it would be a lesson in
intellectual discovery, and all would be well. BUT JUDY BLUME FUCKED IT ALL UP.
She planted the seed that his little mind wasn’t ready for. For the next two
weeks he bombarded me with questions. I kept answering with more questions. “Well,
what do you think?” “What makes sense
to you?” And on and on. It got to the
point that I was going to have to tell him, because clearly he was ready.
Here’s where Cousin Dick comes in. I have a second cousin who
plays Santa every year. He’s the real deal. Seriously. LOOK AT THAT FACE.
 |
| That beard is real, people! |
He’s
amazing, yes? He had shared a story about a little girl who was doubting Santa
and he was going to have a talk with her about how Santa is more of a feeling,
an idea about love and giving, and not so much an old guy in a red suit. Grown-ups
just use Santa to help explain those ideas to small children because sometimes
it’s easier for them to understand that way. I told him about how my son is at
that same point, and he offered to come over and have the talk with him.
I thought, “WOW! This is going to be so incredible! He gets
to find out the real meaning of Christmas spirit from Santa himself! I better
make some room on the shelf for that Mother of the Year award, because
OBVIOUSLY.”
Cousin Dick came over in full Santa regalia along with his
son, Robert, the elf. They walked up to the apartment ringing bells,
ho-ho-ho-ing, the whole bit. My son answered the door and his face lit up. He
didn’t care it was two weeks before Christmas, Santa was at his door. So they
come in and have some friendly chit chat about being naughty or nice, then cousin
Dick looks at me and says, “Should I go ahead and tell him the other special
thing about Santa?” I should have stopped him. I should have aborted the
mission. The kid could have figured it out later. But nope. I said “sure!” My
cousin gives him a lovely talk, explaining that he’s not actually Santa, but
Santa represents the holiday spirit. He tells him that giving isn’t necessarily
about presents. Even when we feel have nothing to give, we can still give a
smile, a hug, kind words. It was a beautiful talk, really. My son enjoyed it
and understood.
After they left, something didn’t seem right. I asked my son
if he was ok, and he said he was fine. But I’m his mom. I know better. “Do you
need a hug?” Yep. Tears. I fucked up. He wasn’t ready. I explained to him that
I thought it was time because he was asking so many questions. I am not going
to lie to him. “I’m your mother, how can you trust me if I tell you lies?” I
also said “I’m sorry.” He seemed alright after that. When his father got home,
we sat at the dinner table together. He blurted out, “Cousin Dick came over and
told me Santa isn’t real! How was work?”
The next morning I thought we were ok. It turned out he was
just in between stages of grief. He reached the anger phase over his bowl of
Cheerios. “If you hadn’t broke Santa, I would still believe!” Then in the next
breath, “I can’t believe you let me live my WHOLE LIFE believing in Santa!”
Me: WHOA. STOP RIGHT THERE. I never told you Santa was real.
It was just something you chose to believe. Not everyone believes the same
things. Just like with God. (I have a gift for making things worse with terrible analogies.)
Kid: Wait. Is God real?!
Me: Hell, I don’t know! No one does!
Kid: Fine! Then I’m going to believe in God!...like 55%!
Me: OK. That’s OK. You can believe in God. My point is that
I’m not going to lie. I don’t believe in God. Some people do. You believe what
makes sense to you. Santa made sense to you so I didn’t stop you.
He sulked all the way to school. I came home and cried. I
have never pissed my kid off this bad. His anger was spawned from genuine
heartbreak. Damn, that is a crappy and powerful feeling. He got it out of his
system though. He let me have it, and I deserved it.
A few days later, another mother at the school ran up to me
at pick up and said, “I have the number to Santa! Let me give it to you and you
can have him call!” She handed me the ad, and ran off to get her kid. I looked
over at my son and said, “That might be fun. Would you like to call Santa?” He
threw me the most “Are you fucking kidding me right now” face. Before he could
answer with actual words (not that he needed to) I whispered, “We don’t need to
call Santa. Santa’s our cousin and we already had him over, huh.”
And he smiled, with pride.
