It was fourth grade when I figured out the Santa Claus thing. I was nine. I had my suspicions when I was eight and in third grade the year before. I needed to get to the bottom of the innocence-destroying rumors that run rampant on elementary school playgrounds. I wanted to know the truth behind the claims I’d heard from peers that Santa was just your parents. You remember these kids. They were somehow older and wiser, a little more battle-hardened. They often had older siblings and knew about things like firecrackers and french kissing. I was determined to snoop enough in the attic and pretend to be asleep just long enough to hear my parents heading upstairs when they thought my sister and I were asleep.

After that Christmas I faked it for my younger sister’s benefit for several years. Sometimes we watch old home videos and she says “Wait! You knew about Santa then, didn’t you? You were just faking it!”

My parents were amazing Santas. Incredible. The Christmases of my childhood were magical and wonderful. Our Santa had our toys assembled and on display in the living room each Christmas morning. Our Nintendo was even set up and on the TV ready to play. Every child should have a dad who opens the door when it’s time to go to bed just in time for sleigh bells to chime. One year there were reindeer hoof and sleigh sounds over our heads, coming from the roof. I kid you not. It was awesome.

For my daughter’s first Christmas we got to be Santa! I got to display her toys and set everything up just perfectly. Each year since I have planned out how presents would be displayed for maximum excitement impact and better Instagram pictures.

Santa 2013

But, I have to admit one thing. A little part of me was sad that it wasn’t really Santa. It was me. The parent. It was completely and totally confirmed then. No fat, jolly man with magical reindeer brought me presents. He won’t bring my children presents. I have to imagine that’s how 11-year-olds around the world feel when an owl doesn’t deliver their letter from Hogwarts on their birthdays. They know in their rational minds that J.K. Rowling wrote those wonderful stories and they wouldn’t get to go to platform 9 3/4. But, there was always a little hope. Now, it was now confirmed.

I don’t ever want to know how the bell ringing was timed so perfectly or how the sounds of reindeer were over my head. I don’t want to know. Ever. It takes away a little of the magic for me. Now, I will come up with my own ways to make Santa magic. This year “Madeline,” our Elf on the Shelf made counting the days until Christmas fun for our daughter. Hanging her princess dress-up clothes from the mantel to display over her toys was fun too. It’s a little absurd how much thought I put into how to display my kids’ presents from Santa.

I just want to help them believe as long as possible, maybe even have a small part of them get a little sad on their child’s first Christmas.