The Santa Dilemma

When my husband was around 8-years-old, his older cousins - as older cousins do - decided to burst his Christmas bubble in the nastiest, most venomous way they could think of. A way in which guaranteed the little tyke would be scarred for life (well, for his childhood at least).
They told him Santa died. If that was not devastating enough, their tale continued to unravel, saying Santa died on his way, or soon after he arrived in Australia. To rub salt in the wound, they added that poor old St Nick's demise was brought upon by heatstroke.

Cruel, don't you think?

Yesterday, at the pre-school Christmas concert, the man in red made an appearance. All the little kiddies squealed in delight as he handed out gifts and lollies.
Except for Tara.
She covered her mouth, in an effort to conceal her whisper from her sisters, and said to me,
"He's not real."
I anticipated this and replied,
"Yes, I know. It is one of Santa's helpers. The real Santa is too busy in the North Pole."
"No mum, Santa is not real."

Putting on my best actor face, I asked her who she thought put all the presents under our tree last year.

"You did mum. You bought them all last year. I know this because Daddy knew how much my video camera cost."

I didn't know what to say, but shrugged my shoulders and told her that she was wrong. I said Daddy saw the camera at the shops, and we most certainly didn't buy it.
She didn't buy my answer.

I've tried to keep the Santa fable alive for my girls, knowing all too well they will eventually grow out of it, but I'm not ready. They're still too young.
I did however know it was a matter of time, especially since every year my mum dresses in her Santa suit on Christmas Eve. The kids aren't that clueless.

Picture this. We've come home from Midnight Mass, all 8 grandchildren are bouncing off the wall from a candy-cane induced high. Mum dons the suit - complete with full beard - escapes through the back door. Scales the side fence (she's 63 so this takes much effort) and runs up to the top of our street, in the dark. Armed with a big sack and pocketfuls of lollies, she starts, "Ho, Ho, Ho-ing" waking up our lovely neighbours throwing fistfuls of toffees into their yards.

By the time she reaches her house, the older grandkids (and us adults) are in fits of laughter. The younger ones are agog in amazement that Santa has a very woggy accent and sounds a little like grandma. She greets them all by name and hands them gifts. She also hands out a few slaps to the back of the heads of the older kids who proceed to exclaim, "You aren't Santa, you are TATA (grandma in Arabic)."
By this stage, she's dripping sweat, her beard is askew and her pockets are empty. Despite this, bless her, she continues with the charade and, now panting, trudges down to the end of the street to be enveloped by the darkness.
Sometime later, Mum miraculously appears back in the kitchen. I still don't know exactly how she gets back in without us seeing her. I think she has a ladder positioned somewhere in one of the neighbours' yard.

And so, as the years tick on, inevitably my girls are going to stop believing in Santa. But, I'll do my best to keep the magic alive for a little longer.