I’ll never doubt you, Santa

‘Mum, no one in my group at school believes in any of the Christmas characters,’’ my 9-year-old Oli announces when he comes home. My 6-year-old Jasper trudges in behind him.

‘‘Lucia’s mum told her that Santa’s not real,’’ Jasper pipes up. ‘‘And so did Tommy’s mum.’’

They both study my face for answers. Oli finally breaks the silence. ‘‘Well anyway, I’ve decided there are two reasons why I think Santa is real. 1. We’ve had toys in the past that I know you would never buy because you can’t even get them in New Zealand and they’re way too expensive and 2. You wouldn’t lie to us.’’

During the past two Christmases, we’ve had conversations like these a few times a week. Whether it’s so and so at school no longer believing in Santa, or a parcel arriving on the doorstep that seems to be the right size to house a particular toy on someone’s Christmas list, the boys have started to seriously question Santa’s existence.

My response is consistent. ‘‘Well, you can still believe in Santa, and if you believe in him, then he’s real for you.’’

But when you think of it, as far as stories go, it’s about as unbelievable as it gets. One guy makes the world’s toys and delivers them to everyone on his ‘‘nice list’’ around the globe in one night. It takes one big giant suspension of disbelief to not see all those same toys already in the shops or figure out that even though it took us three hours to fly to Fiji in October, Santa does the whole world in one night.

And what about the millions of kids who go without Christmas presents every year? Are they not on the nice list? How come Santa didn’t get to them? Oli’s latest questioning came when one of his adult friends told him he didn’t believe in Santa because, if he was real, he’d surely do more than give plastic toys to kids who already had enough.

And while my socially conscious self tends to agree, and seriously questions the hypocrisy of protecting this one giant myth when I pride myself on my honesty with my children, the truth is that I love the big red fella and the magic, love, joy and giving that he brings to Christmas. And while that’s not in the red-dot specials or the maxed-out credit cards, it is in the boys making things for their friends, or racing up the street in PJs with tins of food for the can appeal, or giving away their toys and books to other kids.

I remember my 7-year-old heart breaking when Sister Patricia berated a boy in class for ‘‘still believing in Santa’’. When I told my mum about it later that day, she pooh-poohed the whole notion, saying that maybe nuns didn’t know about Santa.

A few days later, Santa phoned me at home. Although he sounded ever so slightly like my dad, after that, I never questioned his existence again. I still don’t.