When the eldest child comes of age, there is a nasty job to be done. If like my son, the fantasy element runs strong and you passionately believe in dragons, magic, time travel, gremlins and vampire-zombie-mutant-house-pets, then this day may come later in life than for others. If you have a daily onslaught of fantasy play, fully supported by your brother, you are in the lucky position to let the force for suspending reality run strong and together commit to lengthy ongoing fantasy role play (latest one being an epic vampire-zombie-mutant- house-pet saga which involved the entire plastic animal collection strategically placed around the house, and the floor littered with the decapitated bodies of lego mini figures lying in their zombie attack crazed wake).
I often lament the lack of time I get to spend in the fantasy world these days as an adult, yet there comes a time when I must share the brutally truth of reality with them.They really do need to know some of the facts of life, even if to protect them from the teasing of other children.
That is why, this morning before work, I slaughtered Santa. The opportunity came up. And like all good assassins, I calmly took aim and fired.
The oldest child will always get the longest ride, as we try and protect the younger ones from losing their imag-innocence. But there needs to be some resilience building-shocks to the system, imparted in a safe and secure environment, where they can weep into the pillows for a few moments, as the dreams of flying reindeer, jovial chaps in bright colored britches,and bulging sacks full of every present on the planet dissolve into the murky pooled reality of a lifetime of parental lies.
He took it rather well. He actually admitted he did know the truth, all along, but he just refused to accept it, until Dad or I had confirmed the betrayal. (There’s my boy - denial in the face of overwhelming evidence is my personal M.O).
Its just like any other pretend game, I told him, once the tears had ceased. If you still play the game, Santa will keep bringing you a stocking.
I related the painful time I learned ‘the truth’. I was 5 years old and my older brother and sister sat me down and told me all about the great santa scam. Next they went straight to Mum and said ‘Gina knows all about Father Christmas, Mum’. Mum said ‘Thank God thats over’, and never made another stocking for me or any of my 5 siblings again.
5 years old! We bonded over my obvious childhood neglect, despite the painful truth of his situation he could appreciate he’d had a good run.
He then suggested he could help me pull the wool over the eyes of the other children - join the giant conspiracy - and be santa's helper this year. We agreed, and he promised not to tell the others until they were at least 10 years old. We carried on into our day, him with the glint in his eye of having a secret to lord over everyone else. Welcome to the adult world, I thought. It’s all about haves and have-nots, those in the know and not ‘privi’ to the juicy bits.
I thought, Im glad thats over.
But, then I realised - It’s not for long though. How many more awful truths must I tell? What next on the hit list?
Exterminate the easter bunny and break the messy news on how babies are really made.