Sometimes it’s good to lie to your kids.
I remember being pregnant with Ryan, my first, and saying
how I did not want to perpetuate the lie of Christmas, namely Santa Claus. While
it’s true I did not want my kid to become one of those punk little whiny eight-year-olds who think that the only reason for the month of December is to celebrate
a big fat man in red, or a greedy and selfish kid who thinks that the holiday
is somehow a second birthday party just for him. I was more worried about
having a broken hearted kid that reflected my eleven year old self after
discovering that Santa was not real. Yes, I was eleven and in the fifth grade
when I discovered the truth. After a week of kids laughing at me and subjecting
me to tales of how they caught their parents on Christmas Eve wrapping presents
and placing them under the tree, I bravely asked my mother to set me straight. I
think she was shocked that I still believed. And try as she may to keep up the
rouse, I could see the truth in her eyes and I was devastated. I probably said
something like, “Well, I suppose the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy aren’t real
either, huh?” I wept as the bricks and mortar of childhood imagination crumbled
into a pile of dust. The dreams and fancies of fantasy and legend vanished into
thin air. The twinkle in my eye dimmed to a dull shine. My very innocence
died a cruel death that day. I decided I
did not want to subject my children to such deception. So for a while I was
quite pleased my son had no interest in such things.
But sometimes it’s good to lie to your kids. Sometimes the
wonder in their eyes and the excitement they exude make it all worthwhile. My
son is 4 this year and so far I have noticed that four year olds have a good
memory, can aptly pay attention (when they want to), and take delight in the
fantasy and whimsy of fairy tales, as if you can see the gears of imagination
working in that tiny noggin. He was not always like this you see. For the past several years the holiday has come and gone
with just a mention, just a passing gesture, and without a detailed explanation to the
man in red. Not that any in length description would have made a lasting
impression anyhow on a kid whose attention wavered at the slightest sound, a kid
who changed his favorite color every day, and who could care less about
nonsense traditional fairy tales. He has always been a very matter-of-fact kind
of kid. He takes delight in numbers and letters and the way things work. His favorite things are alarms
and sirens, smoke detectors, and medical devices that make noise. He seemed to
prefer the truth and detailed explanations on how things work. Fairy tales and
stories were met with looks of doubt and questions of feasibility. You can’t
pull the wool over his eyes. He didn’t care much for TV or movies and in fact
did not sit through an entire movie undistracted until he was nearly three
years old. Then I was subjected to the same movie playing in a loop nonstop for
a week straight, hearing him reciting it word for word, until I found myself humming
along to the soundtrack in the middle of the day.
But I digress; I never saw the sense in taking the time or
energy to explain the whole story to him when he had no interest to begin with.
For him Christmas encompassed the tangible: snow, decorations, a tree, lots of
food, and family, and of course presents. That was fine with me. But this year,
he is four and he asks a great many of questions on things that are difficult to explain. After a year of dealing with some of those hard-to-explain things in his life, he has discovered that there are some amazing things
in the intangible: the giant tumor that could not be seen and that made him very
ill, the skill of the doctors and mysterious multi-colored medicines that made
him feel better, and the belief in God and prayer that worked miracles on his
very life.
So last night, I took a step in the direction I said I would
never venture. I decided in a split second that it was unfair of me to rob him
of the enchantment and wonder of the belief in mythological beings that have become
the cornerstone of any American childhood. I want him to be just a regular kid and experience all the things ordinary kids do. I guess that this is one thing that has changed for our family since he was diagnosed. I've learned to loosen up. So here we were in the middle of the night, way past his bed time, wide awake and having a conversation about winter. And it honestly didn’t occur to me until we were in the middle of a
conversation, that he did not know much about the season. I first hesitantly asked him if he
knew the story of Santa Claus. His answer was, of course, a confused no. Immediately his delight and
anticipation grew as if I was about to present him with a grand gift. And so began my lie.
He giggled with glee. His eyes twinkled with delight. He listened intently and with such eagerness
as if every word of my story was an ever growing crescendo to a magnificent
climax. I told him of the village hidden away at the North Pole, the magical
elves who cobble away all year long making special toys, the fanciful flying
reindeer, the giant red sled and the sack filled with gifts. I described in
great detail the velvety red suit, the snowy white beard, the bowl full of
jelly belly. I tried not to leave out any element of the fairy tale that I had
once treasured so fondly as a child. And when the story was over he asked me to
tell it again and again. Each time I told it was as good as the first. It
was as if the story was a treasured secret, a pirate’s chest, and he had just
discovered the key to unlock it’s riches. And I found myself feeling like a kid
again as I recalled the feelings of enchantment. For a moment
I had felt that overwhelming swell of mystery and exhilaration that I once felt
so long ago. I had recaptured my lost innocence.
Finally I broke the spell, insisting we had to go to sleep. It was getting very late and here we were giggling and
whispering in bed together in the dark of the night. There was something charming
about that; being there in that moment in time cuddled under the covers on a
chilly night, with my precious son, enveloped in sheer happiness, knowing an intangible, mystical world may exist. As I tucked him in with
visions of flying reindeer, magical elves, and whatever else his imagination
dared to dream, I realized why the stories have been passed down for so long. I
snuggled up next to him and as he drifted off to sleep I began to cry for my rediscovered spirit of youth.
What a great story! Have a fun Christmas with the kids!!
ReplyDeleteI think every parent struggles with this-- for a while, Valerie made a Leprechaun house for her Leprechaun, Lucky, who came to visit every March. It was the sweetest thing. And while she had a moment of sadness when it came to the reality of Lucky's fiction, we still smile about it. A lovely post, Angie. Keep writin'!
ReplyDeleteSoooooo, when is your 1st book coming out? Put me down for about 25 copies, I figure I'll start small and order more when I need them. Seriously, you are an incredibly talented writer and I always look forward to reading the little life lessons you present in your blog. Let us know when you get signed with a publisher and we'll all help spread the word!
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