She’s becoming very independent lately. She started playing basketball; she always wants to run off with friends. In fact, she admittedly excels when she’s not under the watchful eye of her parents.
“Dad,” she said to me the other day, “you’re so protective.” She said it as though she felt sorry for me.
And then there was our annual trip to the mall—once the holidays hit, we bask in the consumer spirit, buying nothing except eggnog lattes, listening to the kids call out all the things they want. On this trip, we happened upon Santa. My daughter casually related to my son that this Santa was the authentic one, as opposed to the Santa at the mall next door (not to mention the redneck Santa at that suburban mall we’ve been to).
So there was Santa, and there was my son, eyes wide, wanting to move closer but seemingly singed by the heat of Santa’s fame. I held his hand and moved him to an area where Santa could see him. Santa spotted us and waved. My son waved, face flushing. It’s really cruel, when you think about it—such an innocent thing to do to a child, show them the magic of the season, and yet there will inevitably come that time when your child realizes you’ve been flatly lying to them.
And at that exact moment with my son, that’s when I caught her—my daughter was standing back, next to her mom, and the look on her face was not the look of a child seeing Santa. She was watching her little brother with the same smile that her mother had.
“Do you want to …?” I asked her, meaning, do you want to wave at that old dude in the red suit?
“No,” she said.
My son asked her why not.
My daughter said, “I’ve seen him.”
And I think I know exactly what she meant.
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