Based on my five-year-old’s behavior in the last few days leading up to Christmas, I got the distinct impression he did not believe Santa was watching him through a crystal ball.
And after his ruthless cross-examination of me on how Santa manages to transcend the laws of physics, I got another distinct impression that he did not believe in Santa at all.
“Boy,” I said to him, “you just have to accept the fact that Santa is a magical creature. You’re gonna’ have to come to terms with that. Do you know any other 350-pound men who can squeeze down a chimney with a sack full of toys? Who else could manipulate the fabric of time in order to make millions of deliveries under cover of darkness in the span of a few hours?”
On Christmas Eve, as I listened to the last goodnight sigh escape the lips of my only child, I began to question the cultural practice and merits of deceiving our children, especially because I was having to invent elaborate new lies to answer questions like, “How will Santa get in with no chimney on our house?”
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