Opinion: Handling Santa myth job of parents everywhere

Back in the 1990s, as a father of young children and a journalist committed to honest reporting, I became concerned with the whole Santa Claus “lie” that I was perpetuating with my own little girls.

So I asked my father how he handled the whole myth about Santa. After all, I don’t remember ever thinking of Dad as a liar when it came to such matters, nor do I remember a day when I went from being a believer to a humbug, so I figured Dad must have done it right.

For me while growing up, Christmas was all about Jesus’ birthday — my mother even baked a birthday cake for Christmas Day — while Santa Claus was a fun sideshow. I never remember being confused about Santa’s existence as the “real world” unfolded to me between childhood and adolescence, so I figured whatever Mom and Dad did to incorporate Santa into our Christmases must have worked well.

“I just told you all I was Santa,” my father responded to my inquiry, “and eventually you just figured it out for yourself.”

Brilliant, I thought, and true in its own way. I mean, my father never came down the chimney, nor did he have a workshop at the North Pole, but he was definitely a jolly old man who left us presents under the tree. So yeah, my dad was Santa Claus. My Santa Claus. That’s always been good enough for me.

And now it was my turn to be Santa.

I took Dad’s insight home with me, to my young family, and started declaring myself to be Santa to my older daughter Amy. She didn’t believe me, thought I was being silly, and that led us into fun-filled arguments over the matter, with me claiming to be Santa and her pointing out all the reason that couldn’t be.

Then one day at school, a classmate told Amy there was no such thing as Santa Claus. I think she was in the first grade at the time, while little sister Maya was still a toddler.

I remember being met at the door that evening. Amy was demanding “the truth.”

“I’ve been telling you all along, Amy, I’m Santa,” I told her. “I’m your Santa.”

She looked at me, puzzled at first, then her eyes brightened up. She understood.

“Now don’t go messing it up for your little sister,” I added. “She’ll need time to figure it out for herself.”

Amy’s beautiful, childlike eyes jumped for joy, and especially around Maya she became the biggest “believer” of us all. She was in on a secret that really wasn’t a secret. I kept on claiming to be Santa, and Amy would smile as Maya said that just couldn’t be.

Even my dad jumped in a time or two, arguing that he was Santa Claus, not me, to which Maya said that couldn’t be either. Our noses were too big, she said. Santa has a little nose, she insisted.

I’m not sure where the nose analysis came from, but Maya kept believing in Santa for years, and Amy became Santa’s most enthusiastic helper — at least when it came to Maya.

Tom McDonald is editor of the New Mexico Community News Exchange. Contact him at:

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