My oldest child, a girl named Burgundy, eased into the world gently and altered everything. I thought I understood love, fierceness, courage, and devotion until I looked into the deep blue eyes of the newborn in my arms. She stared back in wonder; it felt like suspended animation. It felt like joy incarnate. It felt like the moment stretched out across space and time, and even now, over 23 years later, I feel that moment hooked into my soul, dragging me upward and calling me to be the very best I never dared to hope to be.
Those seconds changed everything. I became wholly and irretrievably hers first. My quest to finish college became a quest to provide. My desire to grow and mature became a desire to parent exceptionally. In those moments all my trauma and fear and disappointment became the catalyst for being love for another human being. That infinite moment made me the mother I am and gave me the little bit of certainty I have.
I was twenty years old, and like all twenty-somethings, I had the confidence of ignorance, of newly-endowed adulthood, and of a person who has just learned something deep for the very first time. I knew the right way to do things, and I did them all. And I made sure to tell everyone around me about them, too. Insufferable Know-It-All (thanks, Severus). One of those things, decided very early on, was that Santa would not have a place in our Christmas.
You see, Mom's confession had cracked something that I had no idea was fragile: Faith. "What about the Easter Bunny," I had asked. And then, "What about the Tooth Fairy?"
Both of them were now lies in my young mind, just like marriage, and it led to a natural next question, "What about Jesus?"
"No honey," Mama had said with tears. "Jesus is real."
"But I can't see God."
"No, but he's there," she'd assured me.
"How do you know?"
And I don't remember her answer. Maybe she said something profound that went over my head, or maybe she didn't have an answer. But that "How do you know?" has hung over my adult life like a Sword of Damocles, one that I've had to make a tenuous, painful peace with. We've all had to make peace with it, of course, but I didn't know that when I was twenty.
What I knew was that the myth of Santa had cracked the rock of my young faith, and I didn't want that for my daughter. When she was old enough that people started asking her what she wanted Santa to bring her, around three, I sat her down and explained that Santa is a game that grownups like to play. "Like dress-up," I had told her. "It's one of the ways that grownups like to play games with children. And we can't tell the grownups or other kids that it's a game because it ruins the fun of the game. But I just wanted you to know that we are all playing make-believe and pretend."
Burgundy accepted it with a simple, "Okay Mommy," and I reminded her each year at the spin-up to Christmas. It's time to make-believe about Santa. I thought it was the best way to give her the magic of Christmas without lying to her.
Those seconds changed everything. I became wholly and irretrievably hers first. My quest to finish college became a quest to provide. My desire to grow and mature became a desire to parent exceptionally. In those moments all my trauma and fear and disappointment became the catalyst for being love for another human being. That infinite moment made me the mother I am and gave me the little bit of certainty I have.
I was twenty years old, and like all twenty-somethings, I had the confidence of ignorance, of newly-endowed adulthood, and of a person who has just learned something deep for the very first time. I knew the right way to do things, and I did them all. And I made sure to tell everyone around me about them, too. Insufferable Know-It-All (thanks, Severus). One of those things, decided very early on, was that Santa would not have a place in our Christmas.
You see, Mom's confession had cracked something that I had no idea was fragile: Faith. "What about the Easter Bunny," I had asked. And then, "What about the Tooth Fairy?"
Both of them were now lies in my young mind, just like marriage, and it led to a natural next question, "What about Jesus?"
"No honey," Mama had said with tears. "Jesus is real."
"But I can't see God."
"No, but he's there," she'd assured me.
"How do you know?"
And I don't remember her answer. Maybe she said something profound that went over my head, or maybe she didn't have an answer. But that "How do you know?" has hung over my adult life like a Sword of Damocles, one that I've had to make a tenuous, painful peace with. We've all had to make peace with it, of course, but I didn't know that when I was twenty.
What I knew was that the myth of Santa had cracked the rock of my young faith, and I didn't want that for my daughter. When she was old enough that people started asking her what she wanted Santa to bring her, around three, I sat her down and explained that Santa is a game that grownups like to play. "Like dress-up," I had told her. "It's one of the ways that grownups like to play games with children. And we can't tell the grownups or other kids that it's a game because it ruins the fun of the game. But I just wanted you to know that we are all playing make-believe and pretend."
Burgundy accepted it with a simple, "Okay Mommy," and I reminded her each year at the spin-up to Christmas. It's time to make-believe about Santa. I thought it was the best way to give her the magic of Christmas without lying to her.
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