I can’t remember ever believing in Santa.  But my daughter is almost nine and still believes in Santa.  In fact, several people have told her Santa isn’t real, and she thinks they must be nuts.

Princess Zurg:  I asked them how the presents got in your stocking, and they said your parents do it.  But that doesn’t make any sense.

Giraffemom:  It doesn’t?

PZ:  No.  Because your parents have stockings too, and who puts presents in their stockings?  You don’t give presents to yourself.

GM:  You’re right.  That is pretty crazy.

The funny part is that Sugar Daddy and I never intended to foster a belief in Santa Claus.  Up until a couple years ago, ours was a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy.  That wasn’t carefully orchestrated, either.  It was probably just because of the kind of kid PZ was.  It never occurred to us to tell her about Santa Claus because we didn’t think she’d understand what we were talking about anyway.  (If she didn’t understand what a toilet was all about, why would a fat guy bearing gifts down our non-existent chimney sound any less crazy?)  By the time she was old enough to appreciate a good myth (benevolent lie? you decide), we felt kind of dumb pulling her aside and explaining to her about a cat she’d never expressed any interest in. 

It might have been Mister Bubby who first brought up Santa Claus.  I don’t remember.  All I know is that I didn’t have to explain anything.  They figured it out on their own.  So they both believe in Santa and the flying reindeer and everything–at least, that’s their story and they’re sticking to it–and I have not yet found myself in a position to tell them blatant falsehoods.  Not that I won’t when the opportunity presents itself.  I wouldn’t want to be accused of not having the Christmas spirit.

On the other hand, I’ve already told them that the Great Pumpkin is a load of crap and Linus is delusional.