As we prepared for the Easter egg hunt and children’s festival at my daughter’s preschool, a question hit me like a ton of bricks on that Saturday morning. Clutching her Easter basket and dressed like a young pre-teen, she entered my bathroom where I was busy with the blow-dryer and blurted out, “Is the Tooth Fairy real? I mean, isn’t it just parents who leave the money? You said Tinker Bell isn’t real, so does that mean the Tooth Fairy isn’t either? And do parents hide the Easter eggs too? Do they bring the baskets as well?”
I was so taken aback that I turned away to conceal my shock, mentally exclaiming, “Oh no!” Where was my partner when I needed him most? Why is it always me who faces these tough questions? She had previously inquired about the origins of babies and whether I was the one leaving money from the Tooth Fairy.
Typically, I would respond with, “What do you think?” hoping to deflect the question, but she was too savvy for that. “I think the parents do it. Is the Easter Bunny real, Mom? How does he even get into our house without tripping the alarm?” she probed.
That was it—the pivotal moment. I had always maintained that if my children asked directly, I would tell them the truth. While the magic of childhood is enchanting when they’re younger, it felt wrong to keep up the pretense now that she was older and so perceptive. I wanted to say right there and then, “Yes, sweetheart, it’s us who keeps the magic alive. The Easter Bunny isn’t real.” But I couldn’t. My throat tightened, tears brimming in my eyes as I managed to say, “Can we discuss this later, just the two of us?”
She seemed satisfied with that response, yet I knew I had to consider what this revelation truly meant. I wasn’t just preserving the holiday magic for her; I was clinging to every fleeting moment of her childhood. It was all speeding by too quickly, and I wasn’t ready to let it go.
After she left, I found myself in tears. How did we reach this point? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was undergoing IVF, praying for a miracle? Wasn’t it just a moment ago that I was nursing her in the middle of the night? When did she become so astute? I wished for time to stand still.
Later, my partner and I shared a few moments to discuss what to do. He was okay with telling her the truth if she asked again but wanted to avoid shaming her into believing with phrases like, “If you believe, you will receive.” We were also concerned that if we told her the truth, she might spill it to her friends or her younger sister. I spent the day searching online for guidance, even consulting our pastor at church.
That evening, when it was just the two of us, I was finally ready for the conversation. After tucking in her little sister, I quietly entered her room, took a deep breath, and steeled myself for the talk.
“Hey sweetie, what are you up to?” I asked, trying to keep things light.
“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 since he brings us such nice things?” she replied.
I smiled and nodded, “That’s a great idea! Let me know when you’re finished, and we can read it together.”
She was straddling that delicate line between childhood and adolescence, still believing in magic. In that moment, I chose to trust my instincts and allow her one more year of the Easter Bunny’s enchantment. Just one more year of candy-filled eggs scattered throughout the house and eyes sparkling with wonder.
For her, yes, but also for me. Next year, we would face the truth, but for now, we would relish the joy.
In summary, this touching narrative reflects the bittersweet transition of childhood belief and the desire to maintain the magic of holidays as children grow up. Parents often grapple with the delicate balance of truth and imagination, cherishing every moment while preparing for the inevitable changes that come with growing up.