If you think there’s a way to keep the Santa story alive without turning into a major liar, it’s time to reconsider. The truth is, navigating the holiday season often involves a little deception, and that’s perfectly fine. No one I know resents their parents for the Santa myth, so there’s really no need to fret about it. Seriously, let it go. Our parents didn’t sweat the small stuff like this, and neither should we.
When I reached an age where I could comprehend it, my parents told me about Santa. I embraced the idea without hesitation; the thought of receiving gifts from a magical figure was enough to make me overlook the oddness of a jolly old man sneaking into our home. I don’t recall any elaborate tales being spun during the holiday season. The narrative was straightforward: a man living at the North Pole with little helpers who would receive letters from me detailing my wishes. If I was good enough, he would visit on Christmas Eve. The annual tradition of watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was sufficient to satisfy my curiosity. I never questioned Santa’s existence or how he fit into my life until a pivotal night in the early ’80s.
It was Christmas Eve, and I was six years old, caught between pretending to sleep to fool my mom and peeking out the window, convinced I might see Rudolph’s glowing nose. I overheard my parents downstairs and quietly crept to the hallway. Our two-story home had a vaulted ceiling that overlooked the living room, allowing me to peer down at my parents. They were discussing something I couldn’t quite catch, while my mom placed a stuffed koala beneath the tree. I thought it was cute and returned to my bed, none the wiser.
The next morning, I awoke to a brightly lit tree, empty cookie plates, and my mother eagerly showing me the koala Santa had supposedly brought as a reward for being a good girl. I can’t recall my exact thoughts, but I suspect I felt betrayed. I sat there, disillusioned, realizing that Santa wasn’t real, and my parents had deceived me about it. The koala, in particular, seemed like a disappointing gift.
Despite my feelings of betrayal, I didn’t keep a mental tally of the lies my parents told about Santa, because there weren’t many. I accepted the Santa narrative and the few stories my parents spun about him visiting our home and the mall. Seeing Santa at the local mall didn’t create any confusion for my six-year-old self. I could have questioned how Santa visited so many malls simultaneously, but I didn’t. The Oakridge Mall version was the only one that existed in my young mind.
Now, as a parent myself, I’m fully aware that I’m lying to my child about Santa—and I’m completely fine with it. If the worst thing my child brings up in therapy years from now is a feeling of betrayal over Santa’s existence, I’ll consider that a massive win. Honestly, I feel entitled to these little white lies after all the hard work of raising them, and I hope my child won’t hold it against me when the truth eventually comes out.
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In summary, there’s no need to feel guilty about perpetuating the Santa myth. It’s a tradition that many parents have embraced, and it doesn’t harm children in the long run. Embrace the holiday spirit and enjoy the joy it brings to your family.