Now I'm as bad as you

I hate lying. Well in theory anyway. I mean, I lie to adults all day long. I'm in customer service. Little lies get me through the day. It's the big lies I hate, especially lies told to children. They are so trusting and honest, it seems a violation of their faith in me to lie to them.

Which brings me to Santa Claus. Spare me your clotted nostalgia. Yes he is a sweet wonderful lie, one of joy and magic and cinnamon scented goodness. But he is still a lie. And I hate lies. Besides, my husband was traumatized when he became aware of the great adult conspiracy that is Santa, and I'm pretty sure I continued to 'believe' for a full year, to avoid sending my mom into a series of weeping sessions, so we just figured it would be best to fall back on honesty as a best policy.

We told her Santa was a great man who lived a long time ago, and that his kindness to children inspired the world to honor him with the tradition of Christmas. Except that we used age appropriate words. We still hung out stockings and left cookies on Christmas Eve, but she always made the little comments that assured me she was comfortably aware of the reality of the situation.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday my little cherub of almost 5 asked me if Santa was real. I held my breath and asked what she thought. And she, the child who reads and does addition, the child who once yelled at me for pretending a banana was a phone, that logical, analytical child, solemnly told he that he was.

I sat in that uncomfortable place for awhile. Is it lying to allow her to believe something I already told her was a lie? Can you have the fantasy without the lie? We are on shaky ground here. We were getting ready to get on a train to see Santa after all. I decided to let it go for the moment. The husband looked at me like I had better know what i was doing. I didn't.

The train staff, cleverly disguised as elves handed my daughter a piece of paper so she could write a letter to Santa. An old lady dressed as Mrs. Claus stopped in for a chat. At any point I could have gently reminded my daughter that those were costumes, that we were all pretending. But I didn't.

A while later, the big man himself came Ho-Ho-Ho -ing through the train. She pushed the letter into his hand and hid in my armpit when we tried to take a picture. After he left she went back to staring out the train window. That should have been the end of it, but no. We ended up seeing him again, and it was at that point that I truly lost my mind.

She had been worried when she was writing the letter that Santa wouldn't be able to understand her because she can't spell that well. She really wants a unicorn big stuffed (don't get me started on the trials of finding that damn thing), in fact it is the only thing she has asked for. I'm not sure what came over me at that point, but watching her, so small and sweet, trying to ignore the man in the red suit, all the while worried if he would understand her simple request for a stuffed unicorn, I lied. Not just a little lie either, but a huge monster of a lie.

I told her that Santa read her letter.

That he knew she wanted a unicorn.

That he might not have rainbow ones this year, but he has a special pink one with stars that he knows she'll love.

As I am talking I am aware of several things. One, my husband is staring at me like I lost my mind. Two, that I am in fact LYING. Three, that my overly analytical child who can't pretend a banana is a phone is lighting up at this most ridiculous lie. I mean, she has been sitting there the whole time. She KNOWS Santa and I didn't have this conversation. But she believes. And for some reason I'm full of joy and magic and cinnamon scented goodness.