Christmas as a parent is exhausting, wonderful, but exhausting. When they are tiny, there are scouting trips to the to find the best mall Santa and spreadsheets with the logistics required to shoehorn a photo op with Santa between feedings, nap schedules, and exploding poopy diapers. Then once you get them on his lap, they all have to be looking at the camera. By 3 kids, I had given up on things like smiling. And then number 4 hated anyone in costume, and a set of arms sticking a screaming baby at the edge of the Santa photo became the norm.


As they started talking (and thinking), I faced the decision about hedging the question of the realness of the mall Santa and then the concept of Santa himself. I have four kids with a seven-year age difference between oldest and youngest, so when the first questioned the mythology, I carefully constructed my answer about if we believe in goodness and putting others first, then we believe in Santa. I didn’t want to outright lie and say yes, but I also didn’t want to ruin the magic for my younger kids. I felt like I had dodged a philosophical bullet, but then as the years dragged on, I became increasingly ready to blow the fat man’s cover. Maintaining the Santa mythology is so much work, and trust me, I thank my lucky stars every Christmas that my kids were too old for that damn elf-on-a-shelf and his Instagrammable hijinks.


These days, everyone has copped to knowing who puts the coal in the stockings and Christmas Eve has become the night of the annual screening of Die Hard.  Instead of whispered conversations, sometimes through gritted teeth, like– “I don’t know why it seems like she has more presents than her sisters—Count them again!” Or, “I can’t remember where I hid the American Girl doll furniture set that cost more than our living room furniture!”–we have raucous rounds of Cards Against Humanity and the Fishbowl Game. While the girls traded the matching Christmas dresses for matching JCrew flannel pjs, they are still atwitter on Christmas morning, which thankfully now starts somewhat later than 5am. I’ll always cherish the memories of when they were little and carefully set out the milk and cookies for Santa and the reindeer food for Rudolph, but my kids are growing into fun almost-adults that I love to spend time with — and I don’t have to untwirl the 6,000 twist ties that hold the average Barbie to her packaging.

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