We never told our kids that Santa Claus was real. No north pole, reindeer flying through the air, he slides down the chimney and brings you presents. But we pretend. It was make-believe fun.
It’s not that I’m against the nostalgic holiday. I love Christmas lights and participate fully with hanging ornaments and lights. But we hated to tell our kids to believe in something that was not true. They look up at you with those big believing eyes.
We teach them to tell the truth. We hate it when they lie to us. Honesty is the best policy and that sort of thing. And little kids believe you. Plus we wanted to teach our kids to believe in the truth of another seemingly make-believe figure:
God.
We were teaching our little kids to pray to this person that they could not see — that we had not seen either. We wanted them to believe in God.
Our kids knew that we were Santa. Some Christmas gifts would say, “from Santa” but they always knew it was us. One year my husband even dressed up like Santa.
Maybe part of my decision was based on the memories of my own childhood. I remember that I was scared-to-death of Santa. I distinctly remember being in bed at night and waking up on Christmas Eve in the middle of the night. I was so scared that Santa might be in my room that I did not open my eyes. Santa was a stranger and I was afraid and leery of strangers.
Why wouldn’t I be?
When my daughter was young she didn’t want to sit on some strangers lap, pretending to be Santa, even when she knew it was all pretend. Too scary. And frankly, I didn’t want her sitting on someone’s lap either.
Kids grow up and find out that Santa is not real, and many decide that God is not real either.
My kids still believe that God is real. But not because I told them. They have had their own experiences through the years. And for this I am most thankful.
