Should You Tell Your Children Santa Isn’t Real?

In an altercation between two friends – one a mother we’ll call Khloe, and the other, a godmother we can call Fidelia – the former is offended by Fidelia telling her (Khloe’s) daughter that Santa isn’t real. “It’s the truth”,  Fidelia had shrugged. Khloe’s daughter had asked her if Santa – the big-bearded man in red and white who placed boxes of gifts at the feet of Christmas trees – was real and she’d felt compelled to tell her he was a fictional character. That there wasn’t a living, breathing bearded man who was this generous to give random children gifts. Instead, we simply had clones; random people who wore red jackets and fake beards, and gave out gifts that had already been paid for.

Khloe’s daughter’s soul was crushed. Santa Claus held such special space in her heart and it was devastating to realise he wasn’t even a real person. So when Khloe found her daughter sulking in a corner, visibly distressed by the revelation, she blamed Fidelia.

‘No, she shouldn’t have told Khloe’s daughter Santa wasn’t real’ was my first reaction to this story. Fidelia may be right in her assertion that it is important to show children the real world as early as we can. Or simply tell them the truth when they are curious enough to ask. After all, the world will teach them brutal lessons as they grow regardless of how they feel, or whether or not they are ready for such news. Isn’t it better to tell them soon enough so they are prepared for the world outside their homes?

A former boss of mine once talked about the delusion cartoons are feeding children. His daughter had been fascinated by the way chickens talked in a particular cartoon she watched, so much so that when she saw a chicken in real life, she happily grabbed it, expecting the chicken to cluck put me down. When it wouldn’t speak, she shook it hard, saying, “Speak, speak now”. After a while, she turned to her father, “Why wouldn’t it speak?” Chickens don’t speak, he’d told her. He still remembers the sadness and profound disillusionment that lingered on her face long after she had dropped the chicken. My ex-boss believes that children should be taught about the ‘real’ world as early as possible. Why should a child, for instance, be led to believe that a chicken talks? The world is tough and even children are now victims and spoils of wars. So isn’t it better for them to see the world just the way it is? And early enough too.

I hold the opinion that children’s innocence should be protected for as long as possible. Kids want to believe in a magical world. They want to see the world from a place of wonder and be mesmerised by the idea of a perfect world. Life is long, which means they have many more years to see the world for what it truly is. Let them be delusional for a while, the world eventually finds a way to balance it all.

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One of my first memories of fear-induced hot tears prickling the corners of my face before running down my cheeks rapidly was when an agama lizard fell on my head while I was seated on a long wooden bench. As I flew off the bench, yelping, the lizard crawled frantically from my head down to my neck, shoulders and my right arm before I flung it off my body. From the balcony, my cousin watched as I ran into the house scratching my neck and arm, his eyes lit up in amusement. After I narrated my ordeal, he covered his mouth in ostentatious fear, his eyes wide with shock. “Ah, don’t you know that when a lizard crawls on your body, the part touched by the lizard will become just like the lizard’s skin?” He went on to describe how slowly it happens, how scaley my skin would be, and how it’d spread slowly until my neck and arm were covered in scales. If I was lucky, he’d said, my skin would have multiple colours like the lizard. I was scared for days, checking the mirror first thing in the morning and at night before going to bed, watching out for any changes in my skin. It was long before I realised he’d lied to me.

When I think of this memory and the many other lies – like oranges growing on my head if I swallowed a seed, ojuju calabar visiting you if you were too stubborn, like Santa giving me a nice Christmas gift if I was well-behaved – I believed as a kid, I laugh hard. These are the memories that made my childhood. They, and many others, are the happy memories I revisit when real life hits me again and again. My childish curiosity and the earnest foolishness with which I believed everything is a joy that keeps on giving.

No one told me they were all lies. Living, growing, and adulthood somehow revealed they were untrue and I know better now – just as Khloe’s daughter will realise when she grows up. So what’s the rush?

I believe in preserving childhood memories for as long as possible; children will need it as they grow. When life begins to pummel their mental health, like me, they’ll need a child-like safe space in their head they can crawl into, a place that holds memories that have not been mired by the tribulations of adulthood. A world of escape, full of fairies, colours, and unrealism. But for now, let them believe Santa is real and that, tomorrow, they’ll wake up to a present waiting to be unboxed by the foot of the Christmas tree.

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Feature image by KoolShooters from Pexels

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