one hundred twenty-five

I was in second grade. We sat at our square tables, in groups of four. It was near Christmas time. We were debating the existance of Santa Claus. I was holding strong. A Believer.

My sister was born the day after that Christmas. I want to remember that we had her first Christmas together as Believers, she still a bit too young to know what Santa meant and I a bit too enthusiastic for a third grader. I'm not sure it was that way. My memory breaks down a bit; the chronology of the events is fuzzy.

There was a night at dinner when my parents decided it was time for me to know the truth. My mom was at my right, dad at my left. I'm trying to remember if Chloe was with us yet, if she was across the table from me. I'm trying to remember which parent told me that the gifts came from them. I'm trying to remember if Chloe was there or if we did have that Christmas together, waiting for Santa.

I remember curling up on my mom's lap, crying, knowing my parents instantly regretted telling me. I remember them deciding, almost instantly, that they would let Chloe figure it out on her own.

It is Easter. My nieces are visiting today. They believe in the Easter bunny. For a moment, we considered showing them my white pet rabbit and telling them that we had caught the magic bunny that had delivered their candy. Then we considered the disaster this could create.

Sitting in mass last night, watching the children climb over the pews, I thought about the children Joe and I want to have--two, of course one girl and one boy, close in age and best friends. I thought about staying up late to put presents under the tree, of Joe hiding eggs and telling about the Easter bunny. I thought of the short time this would last, the seven years before the unnumbered years of dying eggs that won't be hidden and baskets that won't magically be filled. I thought of how lucky I was to believe for myself for seven years, and then get seven years of believing for Chloe.

I thought of all the tricky spots you navigate as a parent--what we will let our children believe, when we will have to let them fail. I thought of how excited I'll be to again have someone else to believe for--in Santa, but also in the blind idealism that makes everything possible.