Counting Down the Months

I thought for sure this past Christmas would be the year that Spencer and Allison finally figured out that Santa is not real. Frankly, I'm tired of the jolly old, red-suited man getting all the credit for the cool toys that Bruce and I agonize over picking out. Any crazy person who visits Toys R Us in the month before Christmas to buy that special toy deserves credit of some kind. Lifelong gratitude comes to mind.

But, no. Our younger two are holding fast to the idea that Santa lives in all his greatness up at the North Pole where little elves rush to do his every whim in toy making. And the streets are paved with candy. And Mrs. Claus makes hot chocolate and cookies for dinner. But never fish.

We don't make Christmas all about Santa by any means. All our children understand about Jesus' birth long before they can even pronounce Santa's name. We read to them each Christmas Eve from the book of Luke about Christ's birth.

But probably my favorite holiday movie is Polar Express, which we own. And we wear the DVD player out watching that thing each year. Seriously, how can you resist singing the Hot Chocolate song? "Hot, hot... oh, we got it. Hot, hot... yo, we got it. Hot, hot... say, we got it. Hot chocolate!" It's better if you tap your feet, too.

So, anyway, the whole idea of the movie is to believe.

Spencer is super gung ho about Christmas. One of these days I envision him actually helping his wife decorate for the holidays, instead of simply opening a very large cardboard box, pulling out a pre-lit tree, fluffing a bit and pronouncing: "I've done my part".

I just can't make myself tell him that Santa is bunkum.

I was beside myself excited when he came home from school before Christmas telling me about a classmate of his that told him Santa was not real.

"Oh, this is THE DAY," I thought. "No more pretending. Santa... poof, be gone!"

I asked Spencer what he thought about Santa, whether he was real or not. And he said: "I think that Blake just isn't going to get any gifts this year. Because Santa won't give you gifts if you don't believe."

Well, crud.

Another brick wall.

This morning while driving the kids to school, I nearly destroyed the myth. I was distracted by the fact that Clay was not feeling well, but I was making him go to school anyway. He doesn't have any strong symptoms that help me justify keeping him home, so off to school he went, even though he cried and said that I wasn't listening to him when he told me he wasn't feeling well. And, of course, I understood that to mean: You don't believe me. You don't love me enough to keep me home when I feel yucky.

All that Mommy Guilt was wriggling around in my head when I heard Spencer talking about reindeer flying.

I'm always spitting out facts to the kids when I can. Just doing my part to educate. So I said, "They can't really fly, Spencer."

Um... what?! Well, if reindeer can't fly, then how do they pull Santa through the sky on Christmas Eve when he's on his mission?

Scramble, scramble, scramble. What to say that isn't lying but preserves his innocent belief in a fraud?

And then my sickly older son saved me. Unintentionally, I'm sure.

"Can you believe that it's already the end of February? Seems like it was Christmas just the other day."

Whew!

Distraction. It's a fine thing.

"You know what that means, don't you?" I asked. "Well, it means we only have 10 more months to go until next Christmas!"

"Mom, please," my pitiful sick boy said about his brother, "Don't get him started!"

You know, at this point, I really should just consider paying someone to burst my children's bubbles. Five bucks to any takers who don't mind seeing a sweet-faced girl and a red-headed boisterous boy with crestfallen looks on their faces when you tell them Santa is not real. If you can do it without making them cry, I'll give you ten bucks. Per child. Call me.