Santa's not real. But pretending he is works just fine.

On Christmas Eve night I banged on a roof with a pole while my sister ran round the yard shaking bells. This was all in an effort to get my eight-year-old daughter to think that Santa was visiting which, if I really thought about it, was about four years too little, too late. You see, we’d killed the idea of Santa when Evie was four. Lying right to her face, while her innocent big blue eyes searched mine for the truth behind the magic she so desperately wanted to believe - it was too much.

If I’d already told her that Santa didn’t exist, then why would I bother?

To be a parent is to necessarily engage in some creativity regarding the truth. You must ask yourself daily questions like “does my offspring really need to understand how Uncle Jim-Bob died in that car accident with five members of a traveling contortionist troupe?” and “how much do I really need to tell them about Grandma’s llama addiction?”. I wouldn’t call such omissions lies per se. They’re more like necessary simplifications of a complex world.

At least that’s what I tell myself. And where do you draw the line? Far be it from me to judge another parent on what they decide to… simplify. If you’re enjoying the whole Santa shtick, then good for you. I think it’s fun and cute and a great tradition. Plus you get the opportunity to have your little shnuggums put out some cookies and milk which you are legally, ethically, and morally obliged to consume. Shucks.

For me, it just didn’t work. I’m notoriously bad at lying, to the point that it’s endangered my life on several occasions. Chinese policeman wants to know why I’m hanging out in Shanghai? I’ll spill the beans faster than you can say “no extradition treaty”. Big huge biker dude wants to know my real opinion about his Harley? There’s a reason I still wince whenever anyone pulls out a pool cue unexpectedly. And don’t get me started on my ability to keep a gift a surprise. Actually do. I can’t. Yet another detail I'll gladly tell you.

When Evie was four, I couldn’t easily lie anymore without looking like I’d sucked on some kind of rotten lemon. Therefore, we told her the truth in the nicest way possible. I’m not going to say that “Santa is the idea of love and community and joy” has the same ring as “he’s got a bag that’s filled with toys for boys and girls again”, but it sure as hell isn’t “he sees you WHEN YOU’RE SLEEPING”. I’ve always been completely creeped out by that song and I’m not sad to see my daughter avoid it.

But this year, the eight-year-old version of Evie decided that Santa was going to come alive again. “I mean, he could exist,” she kept saying wistfully as we would drive to school in the cold dark mornings of November and December.

“Sure,” I replied, “in our hearts the idea of Santa blah blah love and belief don’t need to be physically present to be real blah blah unlikeliness of magic blah blah.”

I don’t think my arguments were persuasive. She still had those moments of quiet longing after we’d be done talking, and I knew she was sad. Sad that magic was truly dead and that it had been replaced by the cold buzzing fluorescent lighting of an early confrontation with reality. And I knew I had to do something about it.

I have found that in time reality does become more comforting and more magical than fantasy, because it is actually there for you when things get rough. The mattress is beneath you when you fall, not just someone whispering “hey bud, there’s a mattress here and it’s full of feathers and very pretty and soft.” And then you hit the ground and get a fun ride in an ambulance. Reality catches you when you fall. It may not always be the mattress you want, but at least it’s there.

But when you’re young, sentiments like “reliability” and “dependability” don’t taste as good when your friends are out there sipping on their delicious fantasies. It’s all well and good to be realistic with your offspring, but is there harm in pretending together? If you’re both aware of the lie, is it really a lie anymore?

So I found myself outside in the cold, banging on the roof on Christmas Eve with a long unwieldy pole. I heard Evie scream, but out of happiness. I ran inside, and found her smiling in bed, words tumbling out.

“Did you hear that? What was that? There’s no way that was Santa.”

I put on my best enigmatic smile. “Gee, who knows? How would I have done that all by myself?”

Not technically a fib; I had help. My wife says that I don’t have a poker face, and I think Evie is aware enough to realize the same thing. But the fact that she kept on smiling meant that she was in on the fantasy. And that gave me all the permission that I needed to keep playing along. She didn’t need to know that Santa was real. She just needed to know that her family loved her, and that we had carved out a little fantasy, even if we all knew it was false. Reality didn’t matter, even if just for a little while.

What is good music, beyond letting yourself get lost in the fantasy of a moment as felt by someone else’s heart? What is a good painting, beyond sharing a wild vision of a fantasy with the person who put it down on canvas?

Sometimes life is all about pretending together, if only to warm up for just a bit.