In the midst of the holiday season, my family is approaching an unfamiliar reality: a world where Santa is merely a figment of imagination, and every gift under the tree has been thoughtfully acquired from local shops or delivered in discreet brown boxes from online retailers, complete with enticing discounts and Cyber Monday deals. There are no elves in this equation.
Our eldest daughter, who has cherished the magic of Santa more than anyone I’ve known, is starting to voice her doubts—a development that’s quite typical for her age. It’s surprising, honestly, that a sixth-grader still held onto her belief in jolly old St. Nick until now, but it seems the truth is finally dawning upon her.
I had anticipated (and, if I’m honest, dreaded) this moment for a couple of years, mentally bracing myself for what I thought might be the last Christmas with Santa. Yet, each year, another Christmas would come around with lists sent to the North Pole, cookies left out for Santa, and carrots placed on the porch for his hard-working reindeer.
However, this year feels different—it marks the end of an era for our firstborn. What surprises me most is my own reaction. I adore Christmas, Santa, and the enchantment of winter, just as much as she does. After years of nurturing the Santa myth in clever ways, I find myself ready to move on. While I treasure the memories we’ve created, I feel a sense of acceptance about entering a Santa-less future.
Note: Our youngest still believes, but once one child discovers the truth, the others often follow suit soon after.
Santa was a significant part of my own childhood, and since I emerged unscathed from the revelation that the jolly man in red wasn’t behind the bounty of gifts under my family’s tree, it was a given that we would continue this beloved tradition for our children. Yet, we didn’t just adopt it—we truly embraced it. Sure, we nibbled on Santa’s cookies on Christmas Eve, but my commitment to the Santa myth went further. I’d sneak outside to gnaw on a handful of raw carrots, trying my best to mimic a reindeer munching away while battling my gag reflex. I’m more fond of my veggies sautéed, after all, than raw ones left on a glittery porch.
One of my most brilliant strategies to uphold the Santa legend involved a little genius: every Christmas, there would always be Play-Doh waiting under the tree. While this might seem innocuous, I absolutely loathe Play-Doh—its texture, smell, and its tendency to invade our carpet’s fibers. Yet somehow, each December 25th, a fresh box of the colorful modeling compound would appear, complete with all the necessary tools for creating hair or cupcakes. The logic was foolproof: “Santa must be real because Daddy would never buy us Play-Doh!” My daughter confirmed this just last week.
Of course, it’s a lie—the only one I’ve ever told my daughters (okay, there’s also the Tooth Fairy, but that’s another story). Yet, it’s a beautiful deception that has created cherished memories for my children, far beyond what my wife and I could have orchestrated without a little help from the North Pole.
When she ultimately acknowledges that she no longer believes in Santa, I plan to wrap up a single yellow tub of Play-Doh with a shiny bow. I imagine the moment will be filled with a knowing glance, a shared smile, maybe a tear, and a hug that encapsulates the love and joy of the past eleven and a half years of Christmas magic.
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In summary, while embracing the truth about Santa may come with bittersweet emotions, it also opens the door to new traditions and experiences. As parents, letting go of the myth can lead to deeper connections with our children and new ways to celebrate the magic of the holiday season.