I told you all that to tell you this
I have held that story close to me for the last year. I have shared it with many people (though I kept forgetting to write it down, until now). And I have thanked those two nameless elves in my heart many times.
And I've wondered repeatedly whether someone with a good imagination is more likely to be fooled, or less. I know I was very gullible as a child, a fact my mother loved to take advantage of, sometimes just for her own twisted amusement. I would believe anything. But I don't know if that was because I didn't have the imagination to think anybody would make anything up, or because I had so much imagination that anything seemed possible.
My own Santa belief story is much shorter. My mother says: "You were going off to school, you were school-age, and you were going to be in classes with other kids, and some of them wouldn't believe. I didn't want one of them to be the one to tell you. So I sat you down one day and told you there was no Santa Claus. You didn't hesitate - 'Naaahh!' you said, sneering, and went cheerfully off to school. I shrugged ... because if you weren't going to believe your mother, you weren't going to listen to anything anybody else at school said."
These are more or less the words I remember my mother using. I don't remember anything else. I don't know what 'going off to school' means - was I 6? 5? And I have the impression it was a good two or three years before I really wrapped my head around it. Thing is, I don't have a memory of any traumatic day, like some. I think the ideas co-existed for a long time: that there is a physical, literal Santa, and that we are all Santa, that we are all in on the storytelling and creation of Santa. And it can be a gentle slide from one to the other, because Santa ... as a newspaper editor once told "Virginia" ... is real, precisely because we all work so hard together to make him real.
Knowing it's all storytelling, but wanting to be part of the pretending. Letting the pretending become real, at least sometimes. Maybe playing the odds a little, too, and continuing to believe "just in case." I think that's the zone Darling Daughter is in. Or was, last year. The zone I was in so long. And pretty much still live in.
It's like pretending to believe in the reality of the Muppets. This is something my mother and I still do. But then, I'm gullible.
Around Thanksgiving this year - as DD, now 8, approached her 9th birthday - I again asked her mom how things were now. As expected, no kids stay kids forever. I got the impression there was no way she still believed. Still - it was fun to talk about, for her. To pretend. To play the game. You tell Mom what you're going to ask Santa for, because you're pretty sure telling Mom is the important part of the equation. Anyway, besides Santa, there's always Dad, and Grandma, and these days there's the cousins and your baby half-sister and your stepmom (not that you ever call her that) and all the rest of your daddy's family, and Santa can't take care of all the presents . . .
Still, I thought I knew where I stood with this almost-9-year-old until I made my just-before-Thanksgiving visit. (I'd thought of seeing what events there were at the museum, again; instead, we walked the mall looking for Christmas presents.) I "helped" her buy tree ornaments for her mom and grandma, and pretended to be fooled when she insisted the one that spelled "DADDY" in candy canes was "for another Daddy I know." She and I also got something for Una - the Misfit Toys advent tree we've already talked about in her post.
But when we walked past Santa, she got odd. She wanted to wave to him, but she could see he was busy. She wanted to yell what she wanted, but she knew that wouldn't be right. But she couldn't quite bring herself to go wait in line either. I offered to wait with her, even pay for pictures. No no ... there was some kind of struggle going on.
Later, I spoke casually of talking to "Santa" to figure out a couple of presents. I don't remember what I was talking about - just that Santa and I (meaning Mom, probably) would make sure she got the DVDs she wanted, but didn't get any twice. Her jaw dropped, and she looked at me with shining eyes, that may or may not have been a put-on.
"You know Santa Claus's number?"
Sure, I said. In fact, I had his cell number. Her reaction to this was so priceless, I had to continue. "Sure, in fact, I was with him when he got his first cell phone. That's how I got it. It's not everybody who knows his cell number, you know."
I am my mother's child, clearly.
"Of course, I haven't actually talked to him in a while," I mused. "Haven't needed to call him, so his number could have changed. The number I have might not be any good any more." I was proud that this confession did not seem to dim my coolness factor in her eyes.
Well, I saw her several more times in December. More Christmas shopping and a movie early in December, then an overnight down here for presents, then a quick visit up there to see her school concert. A busier month than usual. Phone calls too. I didn't get to ask about Santa much, though.
Until yesterday, when I finally asked her mother, at DD's birthday party, how things were with Santa this year.
"I don't know, and that's the truth," she said. "I don't think she believes, and then sometimes she really does seem like it. There was a nice note from Santa again this year, and she was really thrilled about it. Oh, and she was bragging to one of the neighbor kids the other day. Apparently, you have Santa's cell phone number?"
I swear, at this point, I don't know if I'm messing with DD, or she with me. Overall, I think she's in on it, but won't admit to being in on it. I think.
Today, I'm home, and DD is up there, in Milwaukee. Today, it's her birthday for real, and she is 9 years old.
Happy Birthday, Sweetheart.
I hope you never tell me what I don't want to know. Even when we know we're pretending - let's never stop pretending. About Santa, or about the Muppets.
And I've wondered repeatedly whether someone with a good imagination is more likely to be fooled, or less. I know I was very gullible as a child, a fact my mother loved to take advantage of, sometimes just for her own twisted amusement. I would believe anything. But I don't know if that was because I didn't have the imagination to think anybody would make anything up, or because I had so much imagination that anything seemed possible.
My own Santa belief story is much shorter. My mother says: "You were going off to school, you were school-age, and you were going to be in classes with other kids, and some of them wouldn't believe. I didn't want one of them to be the one to tell you. So I sat you down one day and told you there was no Santa Claus. You didn't hesitate - 'Naaahh!' you said, sneering, and went cheerfully off to school. I shrugged ... because if you weren't going to believe your mother, you weren't going to listen to anything anybody else at school said."
These are more or less the words I remember my mother using. I don't remember anything else. I don't know what 'going off to school' means - was I 6? 5? And I have the impression it was a good two or three years before I really wrapped my head around it. Thing is, I don't have a memory of any traumatic day, like some. I think the ideas co-existed for a long time: that there is a physical, literal Santa, and that we are all Santa, that we are all in on the storytelling and creation of Santa. And it can be a gentle slide from one to the other, because Santa ... as a newspaper editor once told "Virginia" ... is real, precisely because we all work so hard together to make him real.
Knowing it's all storytelling, but wanting to be part of the pretending. Letting the pretending become real, at least sometimes. Maybe playing the odds a little, too, and continuing to believe "just in case." I think that's the zone Darling Daughter is in. Or was, last year. The zone I was in so long. And pretty much still live in.
It's like pretending to believe in the reality of the Muppets. This is something my mother and I still do. But then, I'm gullible.
Around Thanksgiving this year - as DD, now 8, approached her 9th birthday - I again asked her mom how things were now. As expected, no kids stay kids forever. I got the impression there was no way she still believed. Still - it was fun to talk about, for her. To pretend. To play the game. You tell Mom what you're going to ask Santa for, because you're pretty sure telling Mom is the important part of the equation. Anyway, besides Santa, there's always Dad, and Grandma, and these days there's the cousins and your baby half-sister and your stepmom (not that you ever call her that) and all the rest of your daddy's family, and Santa can't take care of all the presents . . .
Still, I thought I knew where I stood with this almost-9-year-old until I made my just-before-Thanksgiving visit. (I'd thought of seeing what events there were at the museum, again; instead, we walked the mall looking for Christmas presents.) I "helped" her buy tree ornaments for her mom and grandma, and pretended to be fooled when she insisted the one that spelled "DADDY" in candy canes was "for another Daddy I know." She and I also got something for Una - the Misfit Toys advent tree we've already talked about in her post.
But when we walked past Santa, she got odd. She wanted to wave to him, but she could see he was busy. She wanted to yell what she wanted, but she knew that wouldn't be right. But she couldn't quite bring herself to go wait in line either. I offered to wait with her, even pay for pictures. No no ... there was some kind of struggle going on.
Later, I spoke casually of talking to "Santa" to figure out a couple of presents. I don't remember what I was talking about - just that Santa and I (meaning Mom, probably) would make sure she got the DVDs she wanted, but didn't get any twice. Her jaw dropped, and she looked at me with shining eyes, that may or may not have been a put-on.
"You know Santa Claus's number?"
Sure, I said. In fact, I had his cell number. Her reaction to this was so priceless, I had to continue. "Sure, in fact, I was with him when he got his first cell phone. That's how I got it. It's not everybody who knows his cell number, you know."
I am my mother's child, clearly.
"Of course, I haven't actually talked to him in a while," I mused. "Haven't needed to call him, so his number could have changed. The number I have might not be any good any more." I was proud that this confession did not seem to dim my coolness factor in her eyes.
Well, I saw her several more times in December. More Christmas shopping and a movie early in December, then an overnight down here for presents, then a quick visit up there to see her school concert. A busier month than usual. Phone calls too. I didn't get to ask about Santa much, though.
Until yesterday, when I finally asked her mother, at DD's birthday party, how things were with Santa this year.
"I don't know, and that's the truth," she said. "I don't think she believes, and then sometimes she really does seem like it. There was a nice note from Santa again this year, and she was really thrilled about it. Oh, and she was bragging to one of the neighbor kids the other day. Apparently, you have Santa's cell phone number?"
I swear, at this point, I don't know if I'm messing with DD, or she with me. Overall, I think she's in on it, but won't admit to being in on it. I think.
Today, I'm home, and DD is up there, in Milwaukee. Today, it's her birthday for real, and she is 9 years old.
Happy Birthday, Sweetheart.
I hope you never tell me what I don't want to know. Even when we know we're pretending - let's never stop pretending. About Santa, or about the Muppets.