My family stands at the edge of a curious transition, stepping into a reality where Santa is merely a fictional figure and every single gift under the tree comes from local shops or those nondescript brown boxes delivered by online retailers luring us in with irresistible discounts and free shipping. No elves will be part of this equation.
Our eldest daughter, who has cherished the spirit of Santa and the magic of Christmas more than any child I’ve ever met, is beginning to express the doubts typical of her age. It’s surprising that a sixth-grader has held onto her belief in Santa for so long, but it seems the time has finally come for the truth to emerge.
I had anticipated this moment with a mix of dread and acceptance over the past few years, mentally preparing myself for what I believed might be our last Christmas with Santa. Yet, every year, we found ourselves repeating the ritual—sending letters to the North Pole, leaving cookies by the tree, and carrots on the doorstep for the hardworking reindeer.
Now, as we approach what may be our first Santa-less Christmas, I find myself surprisingly at peace. I adore Christmas, the lore of Santa, and all the magic that accompanies it, perhaps as much as my daughter does. After years of nurturing the Santa tradition in creative ways, I’m ready to embrace a future without it. My heart is full as I reflect on the wonderful memories we’ve created together, but it is time to embrace a new chapter.
(Note: My youngest child still believes, but as one domino falls, it often leads to the next one following suit.)
Having experienced the joy of Santa in my own childhood without any lasting scars from discovering the truth, it was a given that my wife and I would carry on this cherished tradition. Yet, we didn’t just adopt it—we owned it. Sure, we took our fair share of bites from the cookies left out for Santa, but I also made a point to go the extra mile: I’d step outside on Christmas Eve and gnaw on a dozen raw carrots, trying to create the illusion of reindeer bites while fighting my gag reflex. I prefer my carrots sautéed and glazed, so this was quite the sacrifice!
Another clever tactic I employed to maintain the Santa myth involved Play-Doh. This might seem trivial, but I absolutely loathe Play-Doh—the texture, the smell, and its uncanny ability to infiltrate every fiber of our carpet. Yet, without fail, there would be a fresh tub under the tree each Christmas, complete with all the necessary tools for crafting. My daughter’s belief in Santa remained unshaken, as she would confidently declare, “Daddy would never buy us Play-Doh!” My clever ruse had worked well, but alas, no more tricks for her.
Yes, it’s a lie—the only significant one I’ve told my children (okay, there’s the Tooth Fairy too). But it’s a cherished lie that has gifted my kids with memories beyond what my wife and I could have created on our own. When the day comes that she acknowledges her disbelief in Santa, I’ll wrap up a single yellow tub of Play-Doh, tying it with a shiny bow. I can already picture the moment of shared understanding, a smile, a tear, and a hug that encapsulates the love and magic of the past 11½ years.
And if you think I didn’t shed a tear while writing that, you must be mistaken.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, Mark Thompson shares the bittersweet experience of realizing that his eldest daughter is beginning to question the existence of Santa Claus. He recounts the joy and creativity poured into maintaining the Santa myth, from nibbling on cookies to cleverly using Play-Doh as a prop. While he cherishes the magic and memories created, he acknowledges the need to transition into a new phase of Christmas without Santa. The piece captures the essence of parenthood—balancing cherished traditions with the inevitable changes that come with growing up.