Right before the Christmas break, my younger son logged in early to one of his classes. The kids showed their stuffies to each other, discussed their breakfast, and then proceeded to a new topic. Santa.

Now, I was introduced to Santa a little late in my childhood. Thanks to the convent school I studied at, I could sing carols, pay my respects to Jesus at the chapel, and knew all about the holy trinity. But Santa and Christmas had not yet made an entry into our Hindu household. Until one day, a cousin showed me how Santa had scaled the building through the water pipes, made it through the locked window in her room, and stuffed her socks with candies, toys, and an ingenious travel-sized foldable toothbrush with pink chewing gum sachets inside. The unfairness of it all! I promptly asked my Mom “How come Santa never comes to our house?” My mother, not to let an opportunity to practice cursive go wasted, recommended I draw a poster and write a lengthy letter to Santa in my best handwriting. I don’t remember what I wrote, but Christmas that year showered its bounty on me. The magic, however, was shortlived, The very next week, at a New Year party, a family friend revealed the ‘Truth’ to us. There were no letters the following year, but that only made the magic of that one-year extra special in my memories.

Fast forward to now, I didn’t know when the “truth” had made its way to my kids. I suspect it had something to do with my older son loudly remarking last year that the packing paper Santa had used was the same one as Mamma had. 

So that morning, as his classmates shared about Santa, my younger one started,” About Santa, you know guys….” And before I could make it into the room, he had blurted it all out. The ‘Truth’ in all its unbecoming glory. That evening there probably were some extra hard questions for my fellow parents to answer. Ugh. Had we stolen Christmas?

I needn’t have worried too much. A Christmas miracle had taken place in my own household and Santa was being resurrected. The tree was filled with ornaments, stockings were hung and letters, even letters, were being written. My son had realized, as I am sure some of his friends, had too, that it was only in their benefit to keep the Christmas magic, a.k.a Santa alive for as long as they could. I, for my part, hid the packing paper more successfully this time. 

Maybe next year, I will claim the credit, but this time I let Santa have the floor/chimney. We did share the cookies though.