We were going to be different parents. Or so we thought. It started when we got married in a London register office when I was already pregnant, the briefest of ceremonial stuff, no party, no family. The baby was not to be baptised (although someone did that behind our backs when she was 10 years old, different story) and definitely no stupid Santa or Easter bunny rubbish, no lies, ever, all questions answered truthfully and so on, we lived in a commune.
Of course, grandparents intervened. Generously, yes, with a twinkle and lots of fun. But in due course, we were left with a toddler who was firmly convinced that Santa existed and that letters had to be written etc. etc. One year, her one and only wish was to be awake at night when - as she was convinced - all her toys become alive. She only asked for it to happen once and specified that she did not want anything else at all. Santa of course failed her. We were all quite upset and disappointed that year.
Then there was the moment when she stopped believing. In hindsight, it was worse than the entire crappy Santa story telling that went on before. I had just picked her up from school, together with a friend, Natalie (whose name to this day is only angrily hissed in this household), and both were sitting in the back of the car talking while I drove. Natalie (hiss) had an older sister and was somewhat more advanced in worldly things. And there she was, telling my daughter, do you know Santa doesn't exist, it's just made up stuff by the adults. I looked into the rearview mirror and saw the shocked expression on my daughter's face. She almost cried but recovered just in time to respond, with a firm voice, so what, I've known that for ages anyway.
Later that evening when Natalie (another hiss), was collected by her parents, my child turned to me and said, she's an awful liar, that Natalie, isn't she. She always makes up stories about everything.
And then she cried a bit and we had one of these decisive parenting moments we still talk about to this day.
7 comments:
I hate talking about Santa because it's a lie. Jack's poppa doesn't feel the same way though. He talks about Santa a lot and I keep my mouth shut, but it's hard.
Your poor daughter, that hurts to find out the truth.
I had suspected that there was no Santa for a very long time and then a girl whom i trusted as she was older, told me for sure that there wasn't. I don't think I was upset at all. I can't even remember when my kids found out. Isn't that horrible?
I don't remember how old I was but one christmas eve I was determined to stay awake to see Santa. I don't know how long it was after we kids were sent to bed but after a while my father came down the hall and quietly called my name to see if I was asleep so they could put out the Santa presents. I pretty much figured it out then. I rejected christianity in my early 20s. Santa was never a fixture for my own kids as my husband was jewish and I had converted to judaism when I got pregnant (which I later rejected as well along with all religion). my parents though, convinced that our own celebrations and traditions were lacking, did their best to woo them with Santa but our kids never believed.
In hindsight, your "no lies" approach would probably have been healthier, wouldn't it? I don't remember a specific moment when I stopped believing in Santa. More of a slow, dawning realization that the story didn't quite add up!
My older sister and her pal told me there was no Santa. I remember feeling so sorry for them because they didn't believe. I walked away, absolutely unfazed and still believing.
What strikes me so powerfully in this story is your daughter's instantaneous recognition of the truth, even delivered from an unreliable narrator as Natalie (hiss). Bright girl. Capable of fantasy, but clear-sighted all the same.
I remember staying awake once and peeking through the staircase rails and mom and dad we at the tree. No trauma, don't think I told my younger brother, just went along not discussed as was the case with so much in life. Kim in PA
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