As we prepared for the Easter egg hunt and children’s festival at our daughter’s preschool, a question hit me unexpectedly on a Saturday morning. My daughter, clutching her Easter basket and dressed like a pre-tween, burst into the bathroom while I was drying my hair and asked, “Is the Tooth Fairy real? I mean, don’t parents leave the money? You told me Tinker Bell isn’t real, so does that mean the Tooth Fairy isn’t either? And what about the Easter Bunny? Do parents hide the eggs and bring the baskets too?”
I was taken aback, quickly turning away to mask my shocked expression. “Oh no,” I thought. Where was my husband when I needed him? Why did these difficult questions always land in my lap? She had already bombarded me with queries like, “Where do babies come from?” and “How did the baby get in there?” On the first day of first grade, she added, “Angela said the Tooth Fairy isn’t real. Is that true?”
In previous situations, I’d sidestepped the question with, “What do you think?” But this time, it wasn’t working. “I think parents do it. Is the Easter Bunny real, Mom? How does he get into the house without setting off the alarm?” she pressed.
That was my moment of truth. I had always promised myself that if my kids asked directly, I would tell them the truth. I felt a pang of guilt for the lies, even if they were meant to preserve the magic of childhood. But now that she was older and so astute, I felt even worse. I wanted to say, “Yes, sweetie, parents keep the magic alive. The Easter Bunny isn’t real; it has always been us.” But the words stuck in my throat, and I instead managed to say, “Can we talk about this later, just you and me?”
This seemed to satisfy her, but I knew I had to reflect on what this truth meant. I wasn’t just maintaining the illusion for her; I was clinging to the fleeting moments of her childhood, which felt like they were slipping away too fast.
Once she left the room, I allowed myself to cry. How had we arrived at this point? It felt like just yesterday I was undergoing IVF treatments, praying for a miracle. And now here we were, contemplating the end of innocent beliefs. Why did time have to move so quickly?
After the event, my husband and I discussed our options. He was open to being honest if she asked again, but he hesitated to suggest, “If you believe, you will receive,” fearing it might pressure her into maintaining the belief. We were also concerned that revealing the truth could lead her to spill the beans to her friends or her younger sister. All day, I scoured the internet for the best way to approach this and even consulted our pastor for guidance.
At bedtime, when it was just the two of us, I felt ready to have the conversation. After tucking in her sister, I entered her room, taking a deep breath to muster my courage.
“Hey, sweetheart, what are you up to?” I asked casually.
“I’m writing a letter to the Easter Bunny. I’m not sure what to say, but maybe we could leave him a present this year?” she replied.
I smiled and said, “Great idea! Let me know when you’re finished, and we can read it together.”
In that moment, I decided to trust my instincts and let her believe in the Easter Bunny for one more year. One more year filled with candy-filled eggs and magical surprises. It was for her, yes, but also for me. Next year, we would face the truth together, but for now, we would relish every moment of joy.
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In summary, the balance between preserving childhood magic and confronting reality is a delicate one. As parents, we cherish these fleeting years, and we must navigate these moments with care and love.
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