I remember the moment when I figured out Santa wasn’t real. I was young, maybe six-years old. Sitting on the trundle bed in my room, thinking about the tooth fairy, who was due to come that evening. All at once it struck me: “This is ridiculous. There can’t be a fairy who flies into my room and gives me money because I lost a tooth.” From there, the Easter Bunny fell. And, horror of horrors, I realized that Santa Claus couldn’t be real. It was my first existential crisis. Truly. I wondered how I could trust anything else my parents had told me. How could I know that they really loved each other? How could I know that they really loved me? My world shook.
I got over it, and I managed to enjoy the pretense of Santa. I even perpetuated it with my younger sisters. Now I have kids of my own. What am I going to teach them about Santa Claus?
Penny has had a love-fear relationship with Santa for a few years now. Last Christmas, she cowered in fear when her father, dressed in a Santa suit, appeared at a party. I took her out of the room and said, “Penny. Santa is pretend. Santa is not real. That’s just Dad, dressed up like Santa. It’s all pretend.” She was having none of it. And so the myth continues.
Santa doesn’t bring much to our house. Some toys for each kids’ stocking and one present apiece. Last year we started the parallel tradition of a “birthday party for Jesus,” complete with cake and a reading from the Gospel birth narratives to try to give a different, yet still celebratory, focus for our festivities.
I’m trying to have it both ways, to let our children enjoy the story of Santa but trust in the story of Jesus. One day, their belief in Santa will crumble. Hopefully it won’t shatter the rest of their world. And hopefully they’ll develop a faith in Jesus that doesn’t fall apart.
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