I knew Santa’s days were numbered when Son #1, then age eight, told me that there was a “real” Santa and “dress up” Santas (the latter being the mall Santas). He followed up this observation with a query about how the reindeer were able to fly without any traction under their hooves or wings on their backs. Somehow I pulled that one out of the fire, perhaps pleading my own ignorance or else relying on that wonderful parental go-to called “magic.”

At the time I wasn’t worried about “lying” to him. I was more concerned that his childhood was coming to an end far too soon for my taste. So I wasn’t prepared when the whole house of cards came crashing down not long after due to an unintentional but thoughtless remark his father made about the Easter Bunny. The reaction I received was unexpected – instead of sadness at the loss of his innocence (my adult reaction), he felt betrayed. He accused me of lying to him and was angry with me. This cut me deeply because trust has always been the cornerstone of the relationship with my children. But then he surprised me again: within an hour of the “big reveal,” he came back to me and said thank you for doing all this for him (buying gifts, hiding chocolate eggs). He seemed genuinely impressed and grateful that the adults in his life had gone to such lengths to make him happy. Not at all what I expected.

But now I had a new problem: Son #1 has a younger brother and I didn’t want Son #2’s innocence snatched away at age five – before the Tooth Fairy even had a chance to visit him for the first time! I carefully explained to Son #1 that he must keep the secret so as not to ruin things for his little brother. He quickly became a willing accomplice – I suspect because it made him feel like he was in on a grown-up secret.  I recall an occasion when Son #2 lost a tooth at the cottage and queried how the Tooth Fairy would find him there. No one was more creative than Son #1 in coming up with explanations – I believe he was the one who suggested the Tooth Fairy had a special cottage radar to help her find kids who lost their teeth while away from home. Nothing like co-opting the betrayed, I guess. Or perhaps it was the zealotry of a reformed believer.

And then there is the other end of spectrum. When my father was diagnosed with cancer near the end of his life, my sister and I debated about telling him the truth. His mind was no longer sharp and we weren’t sure he would really comprehend what we were telling him. Even harder was deciding if we should tell him how much time the doctors estimated he had left. We walked a fine line and to this day I’m not sure if he ever really understood what was happening to him – perhaps the hospital-related delirium was a blessing in the end.

I ran into a similar ethical conundrum while I was cleaning out my parents’ condo. My sister and I chose not to tell my mother about all the items that had been donated/given away – or worse, the things that ended up in the trash. As a lifelong packrat who saw every paper as precious and her possessions as valuable, we knew it would upset her and simply did not discuss it with her. Fortunately she didn’t ask either: perhaps she didn’t want to know or more likely she didn’t think to ask due to her diminished mental capacity caused by her dementia. While I made a valiant effort to give things a second life – household goods to the local furniture bank, selected medical equipment to the ALS Society, books to a university a book sale, china and crystal to a consignment store – not everything could be repurposed and we felt terrible about throwing it out. But telling my mother would not have changed anything except made her feel sad, so my sister and I chose to keep our dirty little secret.

That I recall all of this so clearly is a signal to me that these decisions were not taken lightly. No doubt others have their own stories of such situations and made the best decisions they could under the circumstances. Balancing out truthfulness against empathy, love and trust is never easy or scientific. But I expect I would make similar decisions if faced with the same situations again.

On a happier note, Son #2 is still a believer. During a pre-Christmas chat, I asked delicately what our policy on Santa would be this year. Without missing a beat, Son #2 (now a teenager) stated vehemently, “I STILL BELIEVE IN SANTA!” And, Son #1, to his immense credit, kept his mouth shut while rolling his eyes at me from behind his younger brother’s back.