Nonfiction by Brian Goedde
My son Theo got to the truth about Santa by way of his envy of Peter Pan. He was four years old, and it was agonizing to him that unlike Wendy, Michael, and John, no matter how much or how hard he “believed,” he would never feel the sensation of lifting off the ground to fly.
“But why can’t I?!” he would whine, rolling on the floor.
“You can only pretend,” my wife Emily and I said. “It’s make-believe.”
One day, his Peter Pan action figure was missing. We looked and looked, in every bag and bin. We seemed more distressed to find it than he was, and he finally fessed up: he threw it out the window of our 4th floor apartment. He wanted to see Peter Pan fly. Apparently, he didn’t fly back.
Em and I had to scare him into realizing that he could have hit someone walking down the street—and maybe he had actually hit someone! “No one can fly!” we scolded. “And no one can make anyone or anything else fly!” After some tears, the matter seemed to be resolved.
Until Christmas.
Em and I were never big on the Santa myth, but we did have some fun with it. It is true that nothing sparkles quite like the eyes of a child who believes a load of new toys can, one special morning, just appear in the living room.
Naturally, Theo had some questions. We didn’t have a chimney, so how does Santa get in? “Through the window,” we supposed aloud, though we said we really didn’t know. It was magic. How does Santa fit down chimneys anyway? Magic. How do the elves make so many toys? Magic. All around the world in one night, that many toys in one sack, Rudolph’s red nose—magic, magic, magic.
And, of course: how does Santa fly? Magic.
One day, as we were making dinner, Theo asked, “So, why is Santa the only real person who can use magic and fly?”
Em and I looked at each other. I gave a shrug to say, “the jig is up.” She put the cooking spoon on the counter, turned to Theo, and said, “Santa’s not real.”
Although we were never big on the Santa myth, I dreaded this moment. I also thought we had a couple more years before facing it, that deductive little stinker. Neither Em nor I remembers our own moment of learning that Santa wasn’t real, but we both understood that this was potential for heartbreak. I was not ready for Theo to lose this innocence. How could he trust us, and how could I ask for his trust, after this elaborate lie was exposed?
“How do all the presents get here?” Theo asked.
We explained it all—hiding the gifts, waiting until he’s asleep, gathering them under the tree, eating the cookies ourselves, writing the note.
To my surprise, he didn’t look crushed. He looked amused.
“So,” he said. “You pretend you’re Santa.”
“Yes,” I said. “I guess we do.”
“You dress up?”
“Well, we have the Santa hat.”
Theo nodded.
Christmas Eve came at last. Theo didn’t ask where the presents were hid, as I thought he might. It’s more fun to play along, just like it’s fun to wrap old toys and play “birthday” all year long. He also didn’t make himself stay awake, as I thought he might, to witness the charade for himself. We read Christmas stories and said “Santa Claus comes tonight!” with hugs and smiles that said we were all playing this game together. Then our little angel went to sleep, and Em and I, right jolly old elves, went to work.
Who knew: the Christmas magic came from telling the truth.
That year, Theo learned that you can’t just roll around on the floor “believing harder” to make something supernatural happen. And I had to learn that the truth did not expel him from the Eden of childhood, as I feared. It didn’t reveal to him the deceitful world of adults; it revealed to me how much I have been enjoying the delightful world of children. Telling the truth showed us the way to make believe together.
Em and I arranged the presents and stockings, ate the cookies, and wrote the note from Santa. I don’t remember if we wore the Santa hat or not. One of us probably did. There’s nothing quite like the sparkle in our eyes when we do.
Brian Goedde has an MFA in Nonfiction Writing from the University of Iowa and is an Associate Professor of English at the Community College of Philadelphia. His personal essays have appeared in The New York Times, The Seattle Review, and the Los Angeles Review of Books, among other places.
