Lying to Children

“Fuck! How hard is it to put your laundry in the basket?”

Freeing soiled man-panties from entrapment by my ankles I silent head-cursed my husband. Prepared to deliver daily commands of urgency to children, I instead irritably demanded to know why Holly was at the foot of the stairs crying. I am not a morning person even on the best of days and this clearly, was not the best.

My spunky, roast-battling, smile-spreading, ten-year-old daughter was reduced to a defeated lump on the ground, tears staining lines down her rosy freckled cheeks. I didn’t have time for her to be dramatic today, we were already behind schedule and I had a meeting first-thing.

I felt justified in my chastising. “The elf didn’t move” is what she’d whimpered between sobs. I let her know in some order of words her over-reacting was not appreciated. I returned to silent head-cursing, this time the coffee for cooling, and retreated to my room to dress.

It’s not like this was the first time I’d forgotten to move that damn elf.

The record stood at four consecutive days of immobility. It’s always a busy time of year, I work hard, I get tired, shit happens. I negotiated that through forgery of well-placed notes with creative explanations laced with behavior-shaping intentions.

The inevitable daily slips didn’t even require second thought: lie those away through a mid-day switch and feign surprise as we both “discovered” the new hiding shelf.

I gave myself a lot of credit for the times I did succeed (elves hanging from ceiling lights, elves serving breakfast, etc.) and pushed her sad little face out of mind easily. A measurable time later, having consumed my terrible room-temperature coffee, I let my husband know our daughter was crying and it wouldn’t kill him to help move the damn thing once in a while thank you very much. Full bitch.

I think I was asking for confrontation and should have received it but, through bubbly tooth-foam and anguished strokes, he explained Holly just learned we were Santa.

Turns out, he had been moving the damn elf. “Bella,” that is what the girls had named her, Bella the Elf. Holly caught Bella being moved mid-act and unable to conjure a lie fast enough (for the toddler was still sleeping and could not be blamed), a truth was told instead.

Shit. I owed Holly an apology.

This had been easy with my oldest daughter. She had asked (one random day in July or something) if I moved the Elf (and henceforth was Santa along with the whole cache of figures), she was already eleven and pretty mature, I told her yes and that was that.

I sat on the stairs next to Holly and put my hand on her back, almost immediately she shifted her head into my lap and stopped crying.

“I’m sorry I was rude to you, I didn’t know you just found out” were the words I managed to say. “So it is true!” I had cut a final thread of hope and I felt like such a dick. I confirmed the lie of that childhood fantasy and pursued with every tale in turn, one-by-one watching parts of her childhood end.

But growth is bitter-sweet, and I am not cruel. I laid out the facts regarding tangibles for the operations of the traditions we practice, then I found her eyes. Sparkling from a fresh showering of tears, green orbs questioned how to deal with this new loss, and I was ready for her with answers.

First and foremost I apologized for all the lying and requested her permission to let me explain why. When approved, I proceeded to explain:

Magic is real. It is just different than we think when we are little. Not the apparition of gifts nor rainbow droppings of giant long-eared vermin. Magic is much more simple. Much more pure. The real magic is in the passing of joy, in the intentions of love.

Holly consented although bummed, she had indeed enjoyed participating in our traditional lies and would choose to again, even knowing the brutal discovery to be made of the truth.

Relieved to have the hard part finished, I revealed the good news:

Holly had graduated from little kid to one of the creators of Christmas magic. It was now Holly’s responsibility to create the same wonder for younger children. How could she continue the magic?

She liked the idea of being the one to make the fake Santa-footprints for her three-year-old sister to find on Christmas morning this year. I could see mischief brewing in her eyes as we discussed what the leprechaun might need her help doing in the bathroom. She plucked herself off the ground, wiped her eyes, and marched Bella the Elf into her little sister’s room to hide on the bookshelf, ready to greet a starry-eyed toddler good morning. That was the last time my husband or I touched the elf whom has fulfilled her nightly duty to move ever since. I see dear Bella peeping from stockings and swinging from televisions and have never believed more in magic. I smile and tell Holly such.

I was late to my meeting that day but after all, my family is first thing.