When my son was about seven years old, we had the following conversation:

“Mom. Stop telling me Santa is real.”
“What? Of course he’s real.”
“You want me to believe that reindeer can fly and this guy can get all around the world in one night dropping presents off in ever house? WHILE CLIMBING UP AND DOWN CHIMNEYS EVEN THOUGH HE’S FAT?”
“Uhh…yes?”
“The physics of the whole thing is impossible.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s impossible for reindeer to fly. It’s impossible for someone to get around the world that fast. HELLO. IT’S CALLED SCIENCE, MOM.”
“No. It’s called MAGIC, DJ.”
*eyeroll” “Seriously? Magic?”

And that’s how I knew my son didn’t believe in Santa. I don’t know when Natalie stopped believing (or if she even did OH GOD I AM SORRY NATALIE BUT THERE’S NO SANTA, OK?) 

I stopped believing because I had an older cousin who was so bitter and angry after finding out there was no such thing as Santa Claus she had to relieve herself of her outrage by spitefully telling me about her discovery. I refused to believe her for about half an hour but then my brain - which worked pretty much the same way as my son’s did at that age - started really thinking about the possibility that an old man, with the help of flying deer and elves, went around the world giving kids presents that were supposedly made by the elves but looked suspiciously like they were bought off the shelves of Play World. 

I was sad for about five seconds until I realized that my parents would no longer be able to hang that “We’ll see what Santa says” banner over every conversation about the record player or typewriter I wanted. There was this huge freedom that came with not believing in the magic power of St. Nick. I could ask for anything. And I could parlay my knowledge of who really came up with the presents into a record-setting Christmas. “Yea, mom, dad? I know. I know there’s no Santa. I know you buy the presents and wrap them and put them under the tree under the pretense of some little guys at the North Pole making them for me. So if I don’t get the record player and typewriter for Christmas I’ll pretty much know you don’t really love me.”

“No,” my mom explained. “What it means i that your father and I get to decided if you were naughty or nice. And we live with you. So we know.” 

I was fucked.

Even when I stopped believing in Santa and all the nonsense that goes along with that story, there was still a part of me that wanted to believe and still, for a minute or two each year suspends all disbelief and makes me want to take out a pen and paper and start making a list for Santa. The list always starts with “World peace” of course. 

While I was a little amazed that my son at that age figured it all out for himself on the basis of science, I was also a little disappointed that he didn’t have any of the sense of wonder that comes with Christmas. And that I couldn’t blame his lack of awesome gifts on some old, fat man from the North Pole. 

I only wish we could all believe in magic, just a little bit. That we could keep the small child in us alive enough to believe that anything could happen. Flying reindeer. Singing elves. World peace.