This is the best time of year for a parent to lie to their child.
I say that with absolutely zero attempt at being facetious. Generally speaking, I’m not a proponent of lying to toddlers – unless they ask where babies come from, in which case the old stork bromide might get a good dusting-off. Or in the event they ask me if I have superpowers, in which case my reply will be, yes. Yes I do.
Otherwise, I try to follow Shakespeare’s time-worn assertion that honesty is the best policy. Lies can be confusing and damaging to a child, and can lead to resentment later in life; in the worst case scenario, it can lead to the Dr. Phil Show. Better to avoid that kind of thing.
But Christmas lies: Ahh, Christmas lies are the exception. The best lie I was ever told came from my mother when I was barely old enough to string two words together. She said that every year, a jolly, portly old man who lived at the North Pole would settle his considerable derrier into a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer. So equipped, this man would streak across the globe, entering people’s homes through their chimneys and depositing glittery packages under the dormant wee-hour lights of Christmas trees.
Later, when I was still young enough to believe in Santa Claus, but old enough to realize our house didn’t have a chimney, the fabrication got more complicated. Apparently, Mr. Kringle entered our home through the pipes in the basement. It was never quite explained to me how; in my young mind, I pictured Santa using his magical powers to turn himself into a slithering, taffy-like ooze and maneuvering through the pipes like... well, let’s just leave that analogy unfinished. Picturing St. Nick in such a state is decidedly unromantic compared to the chimney scenario, but come Christmas morning the milk glass was empty and the cookies were crumbs. And in a way, it made me trust that merry old fart even more – because if you can enter a house through sewer pipes, there’s nothing stopping you from making off with the TV, the stereo, and the autographed photo of Ernest Borgnine. Santa was a stand-up kinda guy.
There are a lot of bad lies you can tell your kids, like, “If you make that face for too long, it’ll freeze that way,” or, “Trigonometry is a valuable life skill.” I was told the former, and it freaked me out. I was told the latter, and later found out it’s only true if you’re an engineer or a GPS satellite.
However, there’s a breed of fib called “the white lie.” The Santa myth is the whitest of the white. It’s the lie of magic and belief in impossible things. It inspires children to dream a little, to flex their imaginations, and when they outgrow the story, its purpose has been served: To inject those first few Christmases with an electric thrill, one that’s only possible in the absence of cynicism. It’s only during that brief time that you can allow yourself to hear sleigh bells on the roof and believe it’s anything more than the wind.
A few years ago, a friend of mine and his wife were anticipating their first child. As all expectant parents do, they talked about strategies for raising him – where to send him to school, how to exact discipline, the whole shmear. While talking to me about it one night, my friend said that he and his wife would not be indulging their son in the Santa story, citing a desire never to lie to his own flesh and blood. I kept my mouth shut, because the last thing a soon-to-be-dad wants to hear is parenting advice from a single schlub who’s never raised anything more complex than a houseplant. And it was a well-intentioned declaration; in most circumstances, yes, of course, you shouldn’t lie to your kids.
Turns out I didn’t have to say a word. Four years later, my friend’s little boy wakes him up before dawn’s first light every Christmas morning, frenetic with desire to see what the elves had made in the workshop that year.
I never asked my friend why he pulled the about-face and indulged his son in the fantasy. None of my business, really. I’d like to think it’s because he remembered his own childhood, and the impossible innocence that can allow such a flight of fancy to enter into a child’s heart. It’s true that there exists a potential for heartbreak when they’re old enough to know the truth. But there’s a lesson in that, I think. And I know, for me at least, the memories were worth it.
Some Christmases I pine for that old innocence. It’s a sweet melancholy, somehow appropriate for the holiday. Far from being saddened by it, I’m thankful. And I owe it all to a white lie.
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