You Better Watch Out. You Better Not Cry.

One of my children declared to me over the weekend that he was "pretty all set with the Santa thing. But this flying reindeer thing is ridiculous."

He went on to describe how it might be more believable if the reindeer were like hypogriffs ( a mythological creature, half horse/half bird of prey, featured in some of the Harry Potter books) because at least they have wings. But the story as is was just silly. "I mean, what do they have, magic hooves?" he asked with a sarcastic laugh.

I must admit, I admire such a skeptical boy's dedication to hang in there with Santa one more year. It is obvious that there are at least as many logistical issues in accepting his existence. After all, we have a wood stove, not a fireplace. How the hell is he supposed to get in -- really? But it is even more intense than that, because I found out that his classmates have begun to tell my kid that he is a dope for believing. And yet, he holds on.

Now, just like most parents, I would like to save my children heartache when I can. And so, my knee-jerk reaction this holiday season has been to ask myself, "What the hell was I thinking when I fed him this load of shit in the first place?!"

Oh yeah. I was basking in my family's traditions. I was loving the anticipation of the cookies being put out with the milk, and the mouth held open in disbelief upon seeing them bitten into the next morning. I loved the magic of it for crying out loud. But there is more...Santa is a threat like no other. "Are you being good?" has its own significant weight during this time of year. Not only is Santa magic, after all, he is a tricky old man who has spooky world-vision. And I must admit, along with the cookie ritual I have adopted my mother's own shock-of-fear on occasion as well: "I hope Santa didn't just see you do that!"

But I'm the one scared now. What will my child think when he finally gives up believing? Will he be angry with his dad and I? Will he feel betrayed? We're doing our best to prepare ourselves, trying in anyway to cushion the blow -- but really we are protecting ourselves. I can't get away from my own memory. My older brother debunking the whole story for me first thing Christmas morning when I was five, asking me incredulously, "What are you, retarded?" However my kid gives up believing -- it's gotta be better than that.