My Kids Figured Out Santa Isn’t Real By Analyzing My Handwriting

Let me set the scene for you. In the previous six hours, my 7- and 9-year-old daughters binged on Netflix while I was draped across the couch like a lifeless sardine, glazed eyes staring upward. I felt bad about using screen time to babysit my children while COVID ravaged my body — mom guilt has no boundaries — yet there I was. Was I near death? No. But the situation was dire. There was a pause in the theme music as credits rolled, and Netflix asked, “Are you still watching?” (Obviously yes, we were, Netflix, don’t f*cking guilt trip me). The brief lapse in constant entertainment shook my daughters out of their zombie state. Rest time: over. And that’s where this story begins.

They wandered around the house, much like the walking dead, wondering what they could possibly do with themselves. They were uninterested in any of their 300 toys haphazardly packed into the playroom and were offended when I asked them if they wanted to read. They soothed their boredom with food — judging by the crinkling noises I heard, at least five bags of Cheez-Its were consumed. Finally, they begged me to take down their memory boxes (full of cute drawings and newborn baby outfits) so they could soak in the mementos of their short and precious lives.

It was a 15-step walk from couch to closet. One that I very much did not want to take. But mom guilt stood at the control panel of my brain. “This will be a good, non-screen activity for them,” I said to myself, a bit judgingly. And so I used my last ounces of energy and made the trek across a Lego landmine, past an orgy of naked Barbies, to the goddamn closet.

This may seem like a dramatic account. It’s not. And I want you to know all of these details for my defense argument, which will come later. Key phrases you should remember: “Lifeless.” “Used the last energy I had.” “Body ravaged by COVID.”

Here’s where things get a little blurry. If I called a medical expert to the stand, they’d testify, “She was ketogenic. Her body was literally eating its muscles because her glucose stores were so low. And because of this, all she could do was sleep.” So, yeah, I fell asleep. And when I opened my eyes after feverish couch dreams, I saw that my daughters had lined up all of the letters they’d ever received from the tooth fairy.

Before I proceed, I’d like you to know that while I sometimes let my daughters binge on Netflix, I make excellent tooth fairy letters. Every time my daughters lose a tooth, a different tooth fairy comes. Each note describes how the tooth fairy will use the lost tooth: as a home, an engagement ring, a telescope, etc. And sometimes, the tooth fairies reference each other in their notes. For example, Tooth Fairy Timmy used the tooth as an engagement ring. At the next visit, Tooth Fairy Fiona described how excited she was to be marrying a handsome fairy named Timmy. God, I’m a great mom.

The only problem is, in the beginning, I didn’t work that hard to disguise my handwriting. My daughters could barely read at that point, so it didn’t seem too important. And that, my friends, was my mortal error. My post-nap brain was foggy, yes, but I could sense there was a full-blown investigation underway. My daughter climbed onto the couch and sat on top of my chest, crushing my already damaged lungs. “Mommy,” she said sweetly, putting her healthy face way too close to mine, “Is the tooth fairy real?”

I didn’t have the energy necessary for the five billion questions that would follow if I said yes. So, in a reckless parenting act, I said, “No,” not quite recognizing the cascade of truths I was now bound to reveal. I just wanted her to get off my chest so I could breathe again. That, and I didn’t want her to breathe in the COVID molecules that were exiting my mouth.

Her jaw dropped. “You’re teasing!” she said. And it was, in retrospect, a moment when I could have saved myself. Maybe it was the COVID talking, or maybe it was the overwhelming dread I felt when I thought about coordinating another hellish year of Elf on the Shelf. “No,” I said, “I’m not teasing.”

Then, predictably, they ran down their list of magical creatures who visit us: The Candy Fairy? The Easter Bunny? Santa? “Sorry, girls,” I said, wiping the drool off my face, “None of it is real.”

“But what about magic?” my daughter wailed. “IS MAGIC REAL?” And that’s when I really turned up my parenting to share deep wisdom — enlightenment — that would forever change them. “Love is magic,” I said, pausing for the mic drop effect. My daughter glared. “So, magic isn’t real.” “Basically,” I said, rolling over. Much to my surprise, my daughters were less upset than I assumed they’d be, and more intrigued that I’d managed to pull off the Santa heist. My husband, on the other hand, was not pleased.

He walked out of his office after getting off a two-hour conference call. “Daddy!” the girls shouted, “Guess what Mommy told us!” It was then, when his eyes pierced my soul, that the guilt set in. After they left, his glare continued. “How could you?” he whispered.

“Well, for one,” my COVID brain said to itself, “I’m sick of all the work that goes into being Santa.” Instead, I said, “I am so sorry. That was really dumb of me.” I can understand his anger. If roles were reversed, I would have started filing my shank nail. This is where I’d ask the jury to remember: “Lifeless.” “Used the last energy I had.” “Body ravaged by COVID.”

You know how they say after criminals confess murder crimes, they often feel a lot of relief that they no longer have to conceal a secret? Well, I felt the exact same way. But then mom guilt resurfaced, that b*tch. So I tried a tactic I’d seen on Pinterest: I told my daughters that now that they were old enough, they could help be Santa. “Also,” I said, “You can be the ones to move the Elf on the Shelf!” I thought they’d be ecstatic. “No thanks, Mom,” my youngest said politely, “We’d like you to continue being Santa.” “Yeah,” said my oldest, “I’m going to forget you told me Santa isn’t real.”

This is the first year my daughters know about Santa. They still frequently remind me that they expect all Christmas traditions to occur. “If we write a letter to Santa, he’s still gonna write back, right?” “Of course,” I say, with fake cheerfulness. I gotta admit; I was really hoping I’d be able to drop the Santa act once they knew. But I guess I will have to continue writing my fake Santa notes (the one time of the year I use my cursive handwriting; shout-out to my third-grade teacher). I’ll also have to eat the cookies they leave out for Santa and continue to throw away the carrots they leave for Rudolph. Sparkles, our Elf, will be coming back for another December, though this year, I’m using an Elf-on-the-Shelf kit (shout-out to the founder of Your Best Elf for reading last year’s article and sending me a kit out of pity).

Did I think it was going to go differently? Yeah. I thought my kids would be devastated — but then magically willing to take over Santa’s duties. My friend Saba didn’t bring her kids up with the Santa tradition, but her youngest is convinced she’s lying and that Santa is real. I guess when you think about it, the end goal of Christmas was never about them believing a big-bellied, white-bearded man was real. Even my glucose-deprived COVID brain knew the truth: It was never about Santa. That round-bellied man never did sh*t. It’s about the fact that we are together, that we have each other. The magic is in the love.

Laura Onstot started writing to maintain her sanity when she left her career as a research nurse to be a stay-at-home mom. Unfortunately, she realized writing only revealed her insanity. She is not humble at all, and finds her own writing very funny. She forces her friends to read every article she writes, because praise is her drug of choice. You can find more of her writing at lauraonstot.com.

This article was originally published on scarymommy.com.