I was driving home one day, when the subject of Santa came up. My daughter was insisting that Santa was a real person. Her brothers were arguing with her.
“Santa doesn’t exist,” I stated matter-of-factly. “He’s make-believe, just like Peter Pan.”
“But Mom,” insisted my daughter, “I saw on a present at Grandma and Grandpa’s house: To Grandma and Grandpa, From Santa.” She stated this piece of evidence as the trump card of her argument, the irrefutable piece of evidence that in her 6-year-old mind made perfect sense.
“Sweetheart, anybody can write whatever they want. A person who was NOT Santa wrote down those words,” I explained.
“Oh,” she said, deep in thought.
It didn’t help this past week when Santa visited her Awana group. He was a perfect-looking Santa with a real white beard, looking mighty jolly. The next day I asked my daughter, “Was that Santa real?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Sweetheart, that was just a man dressed up as Santa. Santa doesn’t exist.”
“I wish he did,” she said.
“Me, too,” chimed in her 10-year-old brother.
