It's an evening like any other in late November, except that, unbeknown to me at the onset, the shattering of an ancient myth looms just over the horizon.
As I tuck her into bed and bend to kiss her forehead, she says, “You know what, Grandma?” I'm going to ask Santa for a special toy you can't find in a store, or anywhere else!”
Whoops! I think. She's out to test the Santa thing!
“So then, “ I ask “how can he bring it to you on Christmas morning if it can't be found anywhere at all?”
“Did you ever hear of ELVES?” she asks, giving me a look that makes me feel like a veritable pin head.. “He'll get his elves to make it for me. I mean, that's what he does, isn't it? ”
Alas! I think, now conscious of the historic denouement that inevitably will unfold. Do I tell her here and now? Probably not – not my place to shatter the myth. Do I mention anything to her parents? Probably not – lest it tarnish the special bond she and I share. I decide that silence is the better part of valor. I am not looking forward to Christmas morning and her coming of age, but it comes about sooner than I think.
Two days before Christmas ( I guess because she simply can't wait any longer), in a quiet moment with her mother, she poses the age-old question. “Mommy, tell me the truth. Is there really a Santa Claus?”
Her mother confesses to me later that, put that way, what other answer could she give her? “No, Honey,” she says, I'm sorry – he's not really real. Don't be too disappointed, Sweetie. Just think of it as growing up a little. You do that in many ways every day, you know.”
Poker-faced, the child makes no comment, none at all. That same evening, though, when a toy commercial comes on TV, she belatedly reacts – with a response that must have smoldered in her young heart all that live-long day.
“YOU FAKE!” she screams with uncharacteristic violence at the Santa depicted on the screen. “YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A BIG, FAT FAKE!”
It's going to be a subdued Christmas this year. I can just feel it.