I don’t remember a time when I actually believed in Santa Claus. I remember peering out of my dark room on Christmas Eve and wishing I could extend my ear throughout the house. I could just make out the sounds of wrapping paper being cut and folded. Thinking back on it now, I believe I was impressed by all the effort that went into fooling me. And I know that I repaid that effort by pretending to believe that the presents labeled “From: Santa” really were from him, at least for a few more years.
One year Santa delivered to me a book about the natural sciences, disclosing the fact that the North Pole is uninhabited and uninhabitable. No voice in my heart told me to doubt it.
You’re not a bad parent if you tell your 3-year-old there is no Santa Claus. I don’t care if you make Santa a more explicit game of pretend. Your children may find ways of believing in Santa despite your best efforts at being the Christopher Hitchens of the holiday season. But I am unpersuaded by the more principled anti-Claus chorus. There is something too flatly literalistic, even Puritanical, about their arguments.