I did a little Christmas shopping yesterday. I suddenly panicked when I realized that I had to get the “Santa” presents ready before we leave on the 20th for our trip to the States. See, Santa won’t be bringing my kids’ presents to their grandparents’ house – too much baggage. They have to be all wrapped and strategically placed so that upon our return, when the children rush into the house to see what Santa brought, the presents are there.
I was thinking, rather Scrooge-ishly, about what a pain all this is, and maybe it’d be better just to tell them the truth about Santa (and the tooth fairy) and spare myself the trouble. But then I thought of myself at the age of 9 (I think), when my next door neighbor and best friend told me that my parents were really the ones buying those presents. I remember how I wept in the bath when my mother confirmed the rumor. I’d love to spare my twins the pain!
I was talking about this with Y.’s mother. She said that Y.’s older sister, who is about ten, I think, has started to have doubts on her own. She no longer believes that Santa is the one who brings her a Christmas present each year; she thinks it’s some guy who lives in Tokyo.