My 7-Year-Old Was Onto Santa. So I Committed Magic Fraud. Did I Go Too Far? 😂
The kitchen looked like a flour bomb had detonated. Sprinkles crunched underfoot, and the air hung thick with the scent of burnt sugar cookies. Amidst the chaos, my seven-year-old, Ellie, paused mid-cookie-decorating frenzy. She looked up, her frosting-smeared face suddenly serious. “Mommy,” she said, her voice unusually quiet, “How does Santa get into houses without chimneys? Like… Mrs. Henderson’s apartment? And… how does he visit everyone in just one night? It… doesn’t seem possible.”
My heart did a tiny, panicked flip-flop. The Doubt. I’d heard whispers of it on the playground, seen it hinted at in older-kid cartoons. But here it was, landing squarely in my own flour-dusted kitchen. The sparkle in her eyes wasn’t just from glitter this time; it was the flicker of nascent logic challenging the magic.
I launched into the well-rehearsed parental script. “Oh, honey, Santa has special magic! He finds a way! Elves help with the time!” My voice sounded suspiciously bright, even to my own ears. Ellie just tilted her head, that little skeptical furrow appearing between her brows. She didn’t look convinced. She looked… like a tiny detective sniffing out inconsistencies in a beloved fairytale.
Later that night, staring at the ceiling, the panic truly set in. Was this it? Was the Santa chapter closing? The thought felt like prematurely packing away her favorite baby blanket – a loss of innocence I wasn’t ready for. Her absolute, wide-eyed belief on Christmas morning? The sheer, unadulterated joy? I craved just one… maybe two… more years of it. Was that so wrong?
Then, the idea struck. It wasn’t premeditated villainy, I swear! More like desperate parental improv. The next day, an “official” letter arrived. Not via the postman, but mysteriously slipped under her bedroom door while she was brushing her teeth. Heavy, slightly textured paper, sealed with a glittery sticker that looked suspiciously like one from her own craft drawer (desperate times!). The handwriting? Well, let’s just say my cursive hasn’t been used since high school and looked… regally awkward.
“To our dear Ellie,” it began, in deep blue ink. “Greetings from the North Pole! We at the Workshop have heard you are a child of great curiosity and intelligence, asking important questions about how things work. That is a wonderful thing! Sometimes, magic and science work together in ways that seem impossible at first glance. The truth about Santa’s journey is a very special secret, one meant for older children who have shown great kindness and belief throughout the year. Keep asking good questions, keep being kind, and the full truth will reveal itself when the time is right. For now, trust in the magic of believing. You are on Santa’s Nice List! Warmly, The Chief Elf Council.”
Watching her find it was pure theater. The gasp! The wide eyes! She clutched it to her chest, reading it over and over, tracing the glittery seal. The skeptical furrow vanished, replaced by awe and a new, profound sense of being chosen. “Mommy! Santa knows I ask questions! He says it’s good! He says I’ll know the secret when I’m older!”
Mission accomplished? The magic was restored, amplified even. Relief washed over me. She believed, fiercely and happily. The cookie-decorating doubts were forgotten, replaced by the thrill of holding tangible proof from the North Pole itself.
But then… the little voice. My little voice. The one that wasn’t covered in frosting or glitter.
Was that… cheating? I mean, technically, yes. I forged a letter from fictional elves. I actively deceived my child to prolong a myth. I weaponized her trust against her own budding critical thinking. That felt… icky.
The rationalizations started immediately: “It’s harmless fun!” “She’s still so young!” “I’m preserving childhood joy!” “Everyone does it!” And honestly? Part of me absolutely stands by that. The world is tough enough, growing up happens fast. Is preserving a little pure, uncynical wonder for a few more precious years really a crime?
Yet, the counter-arguments nag. Did I stifle her perfectly healthy skepticism? Instead of gently guiding her towards understanding that Santa is a beautiful story we all share in, did I double down on the deception? Did I imply that her logical questions were something to be rewarded later, rather than explored now? That letter essentially said, “Good job questioning reality, kid! Now please stop questioning this specific reality until we say so.”
I pictured her years from now, rolling her eyes as she recalls “The Great Elf Letter Incident of ’23.” Will she laugh? Or will she feel a tiny sting of betrayal that Mom concocted such an elaborate ruse? Will she trust my explanations about other big things a little less?
Honestly? I don’t know. Parenting is messy. It’s a constant tightrope walk between protecting innocence and fostering growth, between magic and reality. That night, faced with the potential extinction of Santa-belief, I chose magic. I chose the wide-eyed Christmas morning gasp over the precocious logic. I bought myself, and her, more time in the sparkling, impossible world of flying reindeer and workshop elves.
Was it a cheat? Absolutely. Did I go too far? Probably. The glitter glue residue on my desk serves as a constant, slightly incriminating reminder.
But as I watch her now, carefully placing carrots out for Rudolph, whispering her wishes to the night sky with utter conviction… the guilt mingles with a fierce, protective love. Maybe the “truth” about Santa isn’t just about a man in a red suit. Maybe it’s about the magic we create for our kids, the stories we weave to make the world feel kinder and brighter, even if it requires a little parental subterfuge and some very unconvincing elf cursive.
So, fellow parents walking this wobbly line… what’s the verdict? Desperate measure in the name of preserving joy? Or a step too far down the path of parental deception? I’m hiding the glitter glue just in case… and maybe bracing for the inevitable interrogation when she does finally crack the North Pole code. 😉🎅
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