Every December, without fail, I find myself spiralling into the same holiday identity crisis: Am I a whimsical, memory-making mom… or a full-blown festive liar?
Because my daughter is eight. EIGHT. Teetering on the edge of believing and not believing, with one foot in “magic exists” and the other in “I’ve seen some things, Mom.” And here I am, building elaborate North Pole backstories about an Elf like a woman who absolutely needs this fiction to live.
Do I think she still believes? I mean… maybe?
Do I want to be the one to ask and accidentally shatter the childhood wonder? Absolutely not. I will not be the Grinch who stole her innocence with one badly timed, “Soooo… what do YOU think about Santa?”
Avoiding the Family Who “Tells the Truth”
Let’s talk about That One Family. You know the one.
The parents who proudly proclaim, “We tell our kids the truth about everything. Santa included. Honesty is our policy.”
Okay, Brenda.
That’s a bold strategy.
Every December, I avoid them like my life depends on it. I see them at the Christmas market and immediately pull an evasive maneuver behind a quaint wooden hut. Why? Because I do not trust their children to maintain the fragile belief I’ve curated in my home.
I’ve spent YEARS pulling off the Santa lie, carefully wrapped Santa gifts (with gift tags written with my left hand to disguise my writing), the half-nibbled carrot for the reindeer, the dramatic “Oh, Santa came!” performance.
Meanwhile, their kids are wandering around like tiny truth grenades just waiting to detonate and ruin everything.
The Annual Question: Is The Santa Lie Harmless Fun?
Every year, the question creeps in. Am I screwing her up? Will she someday sit in therapy saying, “My mother fabricated an entire man to teach me generosity”?
Or will she look back the way I do at my own parents and think, “Wow. They really made things magical for me. That was love.”
I’m banking on the second one. Heavily.
Honestly? My best childhood memories are the ones soaked in stories and illusion. The late-night whispering with my sister. The thrill. The absolute conviction that a man with a flying sleigh somehow received my letter and then visited my house every December.
I don’t remember the moment I figured out the truth. But I do remember how special it felt to be part of the magic once I was let in on it. It wasn’t betrayal. It was a promotion to Magic Maker.
Will She Lose Trust in Me Because of The Santa Lie?
If my daughter ever loses trust in me, it won’t be because of Santa. It’ll be because of something real and everyday, an actual parenting slip, or a bad decision.
Santa? That’s the easiest, softest lie I tell. The fun one. The harmless fib wrapped in bows.
And honestly, although I question it. It doesn’t even feel like a lie most days. The majority of kids grow up with the exact same story; this big, shared tradition that gets passed down from one generation to the next. It’s less deception and more… folklore. A childhood rite of passage. A cozy, universal chapter every kid gets to hold onto for a little while.
I’m not hiding anything life-changing from her. I’m not lying about major decisions or the realities that shape her world.
I’m keeping alive a magical tale about a man who rewards kindness, keeps organized lists, and delivers joy. And someday, I hope she’ll tell these same stories to her own kids, with the same wink, the same warmth, and the same sprinkle of Christmas magic.
Or Maybe… She Already Knows
She might already know. Eight-year-olds today have excellent investigative skills. She’s probably known for two years and is just riding the wave for the gifts and cookies.
Part of me wonders if she’s keeping me believing at this point. Which, honestly, would be the greatest plot twist.
So, Why Do I Keep the Magic Alive?
Because childhood is short.
>Because if she’s going to grow up remembering anything about me, I want it to be that her mom created magic, not just packed lunches and yelled, “WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES?!” (Fyi, get these to avoid lost shoes)
So yes, I’m lying. And it’s the best lie I’ll ever tell.
