As my family stands on the brink of a peculiar new reality, we are confronting the truth: Santa Claus is just a figment of imagination, and every present carefully wrapped beneath our tree comes from local shops or arrives in unmarked boxes from online retailers boasting enticing deals and free shipping. In this scenario, no elves are involved.
Our eldest daughter, a child who has cherished Santa and basked in the holiday magic more than any child I’ve known, is beginning to voice her doubts—an experience typical for her age. It’s surprising that she, now a sixth grader, clung to her belief in the jolly old man as fiercely as she has until recently. But it seems the façade is crumbling.
I had anticipated this moment for several years, mentally gearing myself for what could be our last Christmas with Santa. Yet, somehow, another holiday always seemed to arrive, allowing us to send more letters to the North Pole, leave additional cookies by the tree, and set out more carrots for the hardworking reindeer, who never seem to get their due credit.
Now, as I reflect on this being our firstborn’s final Christmas with Santa, I am taken aback by my own feelings. I adore Christmas, Santa, the reindeer, and the magic that blankets the season as much as she does. After years of weaving the Santa narrative through clever tricks and traditions, I feel ready to step into a post-Santa reality. I accept that Christmas will continue, even without the jolly figure from the North Pole. (My youngest still believes, but once one domino falls, the others often follow.)
Santa has always been a significant part of my joyful childhood, and having no scars from discovering the truth about him, I never doubted we would carry on the Santa tradition for our kids. But we didn’t just adopt it; we embraced it fully. Sure, we took a few bites out of the cookies left for Santa on Christmas Eve—because who doesn’t?—but I also made a point of sneaking outside to munch on a dozen raw, unpeeled carrots, attempting to mimic a reindeer’s nibble while battling my gag reflex. I prefer my carrots sautéed with a balsamic glaze, quite different from cold, grimy ones left on the walkway, sprinkled with glitter to help the visually challenged reindeer find their feast.
One of my most brilliant tactics to sell the myth of Santa involved Play-Doh. While it may seem like a typical holiday gift, I absolutely detest Play-Doh—the texture, the smell, and its uncanny ability to infiltrate every corner of our carpet. Yet, without fail, each Christmas brought a fresh box of the colorful substance along with plastic tools for creating hair, cupcakes, and more. My daughters believed wholeheartedly that Santa must be real because “Daddy would never buy us Play-Doh!” My clever tricks have served us well, but that chapter is closing.
Indeed, it’s a lie—the only one I’ve ever told my children (okay, there’s also the Tooth Fairy)—yet it’s a beautiful deception that has allowed my daughters to create cherished memories that my wife and I could not have conjured without the help of Santa. When the day comes that she admits she no longer believes in Santa, I’ll wrap up a single yellow tub of Play-Doh, complete with a shiny bow. As she unwraps it, I envision a moment filled with a wink, a smile, a tear, and a hug that encapsulates the love, joy, and Christmas magic of the past 11½ years.
If you think I didn’t shed a few tears while writing that, you must be mistaken.
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