As my sweet, tiny baby grows into a tornado of a toddler before my very eyes, my husband and I are beginning to think about Santa. Our little boy is only one now, but next year, there could be questions. If not then, most certainly by age three. After a rather short discussion, we both agreed to share the magic of Santa, just as it was shared with us.

Even though I felt like this was an important childhood experience to have, I was originally concerned about the moment when he finds out that it’s all a sham. I wondered if it would be upsetting for him, if he would be angry and accuse us of lying. I agonized that it would shake his very core, his faith in people, his ability to believe in God. I worried that he would be okay, but it would break MY heart when I realized he knew that I’d been the one secretly drinking milk and eating cookies.

I tried to remember the moment when I discovered the truth about Santa, and to my surprise, I could not. I think it was a gradual process, sort of connecting the dots here and there. I vaguely remember a brief conversation with my mother where she reminded me that my younger brother and little cousins still believed and I needed to help keep it alive for them. I remember soon after my brother found out, my dad said something like, “If you don’t believe in Santa, then he isn’t going to bring any more presents.” So we kept acting like we did. And we still do. So there are still Santa presents for us on the mantel when both of us are in our 30’s. Maybe this is weird, but it makes my parents happy and I still get presents: double win.

I asked my brother if he remembered finding out the truth and he had an experience similar to mine, just sort of filling in the blanks over time. My husband was the same. Maybe we’re lucky, but the majority of people I know weren’t traumatized by finding out that Santa “wasn’t real.” It didn’t make them hate their parents or doubt the existence of God, and they couldn’t even remember the specific moment when it happened.

They do remember the nights spent reindeer-spotting, the careful detail that was used for the placement of the cookies, writing long letters and dropping them into special mailboxes, the first big “ask” to Santa that came true, and fighting sleep in the hopes of catching a glimpse of that bright red belly. When I ask people to tell me something they remember about Santa, they smile. That’s my answer right there. Will I tell my son there is a Santa? Absolutely. I want to give him every opportunity in life for happiness, fond memories, and magic.