by Pam Mistyhn

Created on: January 11, 2009   Last Updated: June 20, 2011

I recall the exact moment I realized my parents were liars and could not be trusted. I was six and in the first grade, and with the chilly autumn air signaling winter was on its way, I would be thinking of nothing but what Santa was going to bring me and praying that I'd been a good enough girl to get everything I wanted. My parents would sit me and my brother at the kitchen table, armed with markers and catalogs from stores like Montgomery Ward, Sears, and J.C. Penney. The folks said this was our way of "helping" Santa know what our little hearts truly desired. We poured over those catalogs, markers swirling and drawing stars next to the higher priority items on our lists. Our little heads were full of hopes and dreams of all the beautiful packages we'd find under the tree on Christmas morning, we'd be dizzy with excitement after the first pass of the toy sections.

I had so many questions for Santa then. Sure, Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer answered a lot of Santa mysteries for me, but I still wanted to know things like what exactly the reindeer ate that made them able to fly, how Santa managed to cover the entire world in just one short night, and since my Mom called him all the time to tell him when I'd been naughty, I wanted to have his phone number, too, just in case I needed to defend myself in the future. So, I put pencil to paper and wrote all my questions for Santa, drawing a line next to each question to indicate to Santa where he should fill in his answer. Full of anticipation on Christmas Eve, I set out some chocolate chip cookies, a big glass of milk, and my letter for Santa before I crawled into bed to dream of Christmas morning.

Before the sun broke over the horizon, I was out of bed, running to the living room to stand in awe of the twinkling Christmas tree and all the pretty packages underneath. Santa had come! The glass of milk was half gone and there were nothing but cookie crumbs left on the plate. My letter, though did Santa have time to respond to it? I eagerly grabbed the piece of paper and to my extreme joy, Santa had filled in the blank lines!

Question: what do the reindeer eat that make them able to fly? Santa's answer: a special corn that only grows in the North Pole. Question: how fast do the reindeer fly? Santa's answer: fast enough to go around the entire world in just one night! Question: What's your phone number? Answer: Ask your Mother. As I read, I began to notice something something very familiar to me. I ran into the kitchen to look at a notepad my parents used to remind each other of things. There it was - among the "bring bread home after work tonight" and "don't forget to pay the phone bill" it was right there in front of me. Santa and my father had exactly the same handwriting!

My little mind was racing. Maybe Santa told my father what the answers were. Yes, that had to be it. My father took dictation from Santa in the middle of the night. So, I asked my father, "Did you see Santa last night?"

The answer was no.

"No," he said, "I slept all night and didn't even hear Santa come in."

So, I asked, "Why, then, did you answer the questions I had for Santa?"

Talk about the look of reindeer in the headlights! My parents were busted and they knew it. And they knew that I knew.

At that point in a parent's life, there's just no dodging that bullet. Under the pressure of guilt, they come clean on everything, from the Easter Bunny to the Tooth Fairy and anything in between. While we're glad to believe they're truthful when they tell us there's no boogeyman under our bed, it's a totally different notion when someone we love turns out to be a myth. It's a feeling of betrayal and deception and probably the first glimpse we have as our parents being human.

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