Queueing for a photo with Santa at the mall, stuffing the stockings, leaving out the biscuits, lying through your teeth – it's all part of being a parent in the Western world right? But it doesn't have to be, writes Katie Newton.
I never planned on being a Santa-busting mum. There was no high-minded rationale behind it. Instead, it was just laziness because, in order to perpetuate the myth, you needed to do the things. Write the list, take the picture on the knee, leave the biscuit out on Christmas Eve. In those blurry, early, sleep-deprived days of motherhood, I did not want to do any more things.
When my first son was about three, I made an attempt. We wrote a list, I suggested taking it to the mall to show “Santa”. He was too shy and declined. When I wrapped his gifts, I considered pretending that some were from the North Pole. But then I decided I didn’t want some stranger strolling in and taking any credit for all the time and money I had spent.
“Why do you have all your presents under the tree already?” whispered a visiting friend, shielding her daughter's eyes. “We don’t do Santa,” I shrugged. She was aghast. That was when I began to realise, that for other people, the Santa myth was sacred.
But I don’t remember ever believing in it. In fact, one of my earliest memories is collecting my gift from the kindy Santa, and noticing that his beard had detached from his face. I also remember feeling a bit sorry for all the adults who were trying to push the idea, because it seemed like a lot of work. Somehow, I grew up oblivious to how much of a big deal it was for other children.
I just couldn't lie
With my own son, it was his big brown eyes that sealed the deal. Aged three-and-a-half, he fixed them on me and asked outright if Santa was real. I couldn’t lie. So I told him everything: No Santa, no elves, no flying reindeer, no magical present factory. Those big brown eyes filled with tears. Oops.
He asked if he’d still get presents. I told him that of course he would, because Mum and Dad would go to the shop and buy them. I suggested that we could keep pretending if he wanted. He seemed happy with that.
But other people were horrified. They told me that Santa was the last little speck of magic left in this world. That believing in Santa was the happiest time in their lives. I assured them that my son would not spoil it for their kids. I told him not to, but had no idea whether it would stick.
When son number two came along, I figured his brother would tell him the truth soon enough, so was clear that it was pretend from the start. We left the cookie out and addressed one small gift from Santa, but that was it. I figured that for them, it was like playing pirates or searching the garden for fairies; all part of the wider make-believe world. Every December, they were reminded not to spoil it for their friends. But I was uncomfortable asking them to lie to others, so it was a relief when it stopped being an issue.
Up until recently, there was a tiny part of me that wondered if perhaps my laziness had robbed my sons of something special. So I asked them if they thought they had missed out on the magic, and they both looked at me, mystified. They reckon they did believe in Santa when they were young. They always thought it was just me who didn’t know the truth.
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