I have never been very good at lying. I particularly have trouble looking someone straight in the face and lying, especially when it is someone I love. At age twelve I had not yet mastered the skill of the little white lie. I meant no harm when I told my brother the truth.
One day during Advent my eight-year-old brother Paul and I were sitting on the piano bench in the basement. I was playing Christmas carols and we were singing and talking about the upcoming holiday. Our family tradition was to open presents on Christmas Eve. Santa would bring the gifts and place them under the tree while we were at church and we would open them when we returned from the service. Then my brother and I would hang our stockings before we went to bed and in the morning they would be filled. As an adult this makes no sense to me. Was I supposed to believe that Santa came to the house twice? But as a child I did not question family tradition.
As we sat happily on the piano bench together I was faced with a disturbing question. “Nancy, is there really a Santa Claus?” I was wise enough to first ask my brother what he thought. He thought for a moment and then said, “Well, I don’t think Santa is real except I can’t figure out how the presents get under the tree.” I quickly weighed my options. I didn’t want to lie to my brother, but to tell him the truth would end the myth of Santa. I decided that he really already knew the truth. “You know how when we get in the car to go to church on Christmas Eve Mom says, ‘Oh, I forgot my scarf’ or something like that? Mom goes back in the house and puts the presents under the tree.”
Of course my brother went right to Mom and Dad and proudly shared his newly acquired information about Santa Claus. The candy canes hit the fan then. Mom did not share my view that a child old enough to ask the question is old enough to hear the truth. I don’t remember getting punished but the words “ruined Christmas for your brother” were punishment enough. The only one who really didn’t seem upset about the full Santa disclosure was my brother.
I am much older and wiser now. Last week one of my little second grade students was clearly upset that her older brother had told her Santa is not real. “Santa is real, isn’t he Miss Greenfield?” I just nodded my head slightly and smiled.