“So, who is Santa?” asked my five-year-old son as we drove to school one morning. Kids always save the big questions for car trips, don’t they? I guess they know that it’s the best time – no social media distractions, no “It’s time for bed, ask me in the morning” excuses, no escape.
I hesitated for a moment to consider my options. If I told him the truth would it ruin Christmas? If I lied would I feel like a hypocrite? Is it stupid that I introduced the concept of Santa in the first place?
“Well,” I finally replied, glancing in the rear-vision mirror, “The thing is, Santa’s not real. It’s just the parents. Me and Dad. We get you all the presents.”
“Oh,” my son replied. He was silent for a moment, so I turned the radio on, hoping for a bit of Katy Perry to lighten the mood. Then he said, “What about the Easter Bunny?”
“What?” I turned the radio back off.
“The Easter Bunny. Is that you and Dad too?”
“And the Tooth Fairy?”
And that was that. He didn’t seem bothered. He didn’t yell that I’d wrecked everything and killed the magic of childhood. He was fine.
Afterwards I actually felt relieved that the truth was out. It was a weight off my shoulders. No more remembering to wrap the Santa presents in different paper, no more awkward discussions about why there are Santas in every department store and shopping centre, no more eating the stupid reindeer carrot.
Then I discovered that some of the other parents at school didn’t share my relief.
“Now, Jean,” one mother said, pulling me aside one afternoon at pick up. “I just wanted to have a chat to you about something your son said.” I raised my eyebrows, intrigued. “He told Sophie that he didn’t believe in Santa.”
At first I thought she was being pretend-angry. She wasn’t. I was in trouble.