Santa and Mortality

My daughter demanded to know if Santa was real.

We told her the truth: probably not, no.

Now, she knows — and still, she deadpanned on Christmas morning that Santa brought her Gabby’s Dollhouse. I think that, in that moment, she believed it.

Later, she asked if she, like Gabby, would turn into a miniature version of herself if she repeated Gabby’s magical song. “A pinch on the left, pinch on the right. Grab Pandy’s hand and hold on tight!”

I reluctantly revealed that this too was fanciful — but isn’t it fun to pretend, my sweet? Can we pretend together?

She looked sad. I wonder if trust in your mother really is better than magic. Maybe it’s just more adult, and I only think it’s better because adults decide the value of things.

And yet, today, I caught her in front of the dollhouse, cat ears perched on her head, whispering the incantation. “A pinch on the left, pinch on the right.”

Sometimes she revels in knowing the truth. Sometimes she blushingly remembers it at the last minute, quickly restating the facts in a quiet voice, reassuring me and herself that she isn’t that naive five-year-old of a few months ago.

And sometimes, like today, she forgets the truth altogether. Or maybe it’s that she remembers her innocence, and I wish that for her.

Because it’s such a grace to be innocent. Such a profound grace, when everything beautiful is bound to come to an end.

I know I’ll die someday. Maybe today. (It hurts to type those words with my clumsy thumbs.)

I hope I can keep forgetting, too.