To Believe or Not to Believe, That's My Daughter's Question

By: Sharon MacDonell

     I like to believe I’m not one of those moms who always wants her daughters to be the smartest and the prettiest and the best. But there was a time when I was very certain my daughter, Patti, was wiser than her years. It was around Christmastime, two years ago. At four years old, she showed a sudden skepticism about the whole Santa story.
    Driving by the local mall she asked, “Mommy, when Santa is at the mall, where is his sleigh and reindeers?”
    “Good question, honey,” I said, seeing her crumpled brow in the rearview mirror. “I’m not sure.”
    The next time we went to the mall, Patti announced she was going to ask Santa. She marched out of earshot and into his welcoming arms. “What did he say?” I asked when she returned.
    “He said he parks the sleigh on the roof and then the reindeer fly back to the North Pole and pick him up later,” she said (chalk one up for the mall Santa!). “I never saw it up there, Mommy,” she scowled. “Did you?”
    “No, honey.”
    As Christmas drew near, and her questions became more intense, I warned other mothers that she was dangerously close to figuring it out. I knew her discovery would bode ill for her little sister and her friends (Patti is a notorious chatterbox), but I also felt quite proud of her. That’s my daughter, I thought. She’s smart enough to figure this out!
    She wanted to know why reindeer flew, how that portly guy could get down the chimney, why his presents look the same as the toys at Target, how Santa could possibly have the tummy room to eat cookies at everybody’s house. I knew she would have to figure it out for herself, so I provided vague parental answers. She glared at me in response, but said nothing.
    When we were invited to a Christmas party at which Santa was scheduled to appear, I was relieved that I was too sick to take her, fearful she might snap and defrock Santa right there in front of 20 horrified believers!
    The holiday came and went. Patti never gave up her suspicious little scowl when talk turned to things Kris Kringle.
    So imagine my surprise when last year, five-year-old Patti threw herself into the whole Santa legend with reckless abandon. There were no questions, just knowing observations. “I bet Santa’s tired this time of year,” she would say sympathetically. “I hope he gets enough sleep before his long trip.”
    We went to parties and malls, meeting Santas fat and thin, short and tall, bespectacled and not. And each time Patti swore, “Now that was the real one, not just a helper.”
    She had come so close to marking that rite of passage—growing past the all-believing child into a kid with a mind of her own. Why had she given it all up? Unlike most parents who want the fantasy to go on as long as possible, I felt a little disappointed.
    But this past spring, just before she turned 6, Patti asked me straight out. “Mom, is Santa Claus real?”
    All the enthusiasm I’d had for her learning the truth escaped me, as did the air from my lungs. “You know there are a lot of things I’m not really sure about,” I said. “But I have a question for you: Do you want him to be real or not?”
    She looked at me gravely. “I want him to be real.”
    “Well, I think he is,” I said softly.
    She drew in an excited gasp of air and clapped her hands like the little girl she still was. Cold harsh reality was put off for another time, thank goodness.
    Patti got an early start writing a long list of presents she hopes Santa will bring her this year. When she handed me the letter to mail, I detected a shrewd little grin I hadn’t seen before.
    Could it be that she was playing along with me instead of the other way around? Could it be she knew she’d get more presents if she pretended to believe?
    Hey, she’s even smarter than I thought.

Sharon MacDonell lives in Troy, Michigan with her husband and two daughters. She has published essays in Christian Science Monitor, Love’s Journey 2 and MetroParent (Detroit). You may contact her at smmacd@gmail.com.