Was she seven years old? I don’t remember my eldest daughter’s exact age when she asked the question:
“Dad, is Santa Claus real? Nicole (a friend in school) said he isn’t.”
I had learned long before this, the value and importance of being honest.
I looked at Jorie, but perhaps could not see just how invested she was in her belief in Santa.
What I could see, however, was that she trusted me. And, in the few moments before I answered, I quickly determined that I could not break that trust.
“No Sweetie, he isn’t.”
I can still see her little face melt into a waterfall of tears. I comforted her as best I could; so did her mom.
It was not the last time that I caused pain to someone I love, but I think it was the first time I’d done this to any child of mine.
Welcome to the real world, honey; the place where things aren’t always as they seem or as we would like them to be. A place where hard reality trumps fantasy; a place where someone who “loves you to pieces” tells you something that breaks your heart into pieces.
That was a long time ago. I’ve wondered what else I might have done instead; something to save this little person from the pain of a message amenable to postponement.
Should I have said, “What do you think, Sweetie?” Was there a possible Socratic dialogue — an artfully crafted sequence of questions leading her to the same truth and not hurt so much?
Could I have tried to change the subject, to avoid the answer and let her continue to believe anything she wanted?
Or, should I have simply lied? “Of course there is a Santa, Sweetie.” And then left her open to the potential ridicule of friends, as well as some doubts about whether her dad was trustworthy.
Janet Landman, in her book Regret: the Persistence of the Possible, likens regret to the dilemma of coming to a fork in the road and making a choice. You walk down the chosen road for a while, before you realize it isn’t quite as good as you had hoped. Eventually you conclude, “I probably should have taken the other path.”
It really doesn’t matter which road you choose. Nothing in life is perfect. But in your imagination the alternative remains idealized. Only in your mind, in the world of abstraction and fantasy, does perfection reside — the perfect job, the perfect mate, the perfect result, the perfect performance of whatever kind.
And, for me, the perfect answer to a simple question.
Sometimes in life there is no ideal solution, no right path, only a bunch of imperfect possibilities. And, of course, we never know what it would have been like to choose the other road at that precise moment. Because, as Heraclitus said, “You cannot step into the same river twice.” Meaning that with the passage of time, the river has changed, and so have you.
No, you cannot un-ring the bell. No do-overs when it comes to the knowledge of whether Santa is real.
We must live with the inevitable heart breaks, whenever they come. In the one life we have, we can never be quite certain what would have happened had we lived it differently.
Ultimately, one can only accept the terms life allows. The contract we (metaphorically) sign by having the audacity to take our first breath at the moment of our birth allows for no escape clause from hard knocks. Not, at least, while life goes on.
I still wish I could have protected Jorie from the terrible knowledge I delivered so innocently that day, not just the knowledge about Santa, but about life. Indeed, as I think about it, it isn’t the knowledge from which I wish I could have sheltered her, it is from the pain of life itself.
But, such things are not in our power. Life will have its way with us. If we are lucky, we will also have the compensations of beauty, joy, friendship, laughter, learning, and love.
Jorie and I lost a little innocence that day.
The good news?
Our love abides.