Not long ago, I wrote about the time I realized my parents weren’t going to live forever. I consider that moment, at age 9, one of the defining moments of my childhood.
There are plenty of other moments like that as we’re growing up. Your first crush. Your first kiss. The first time you got a job and received a paycheck (and realized how much of your money went to “The Man.”)
There are also a handful of transformational moments. For my generation, that undoubtedly includes The Challenger disaster. Everybody my age lost a little bit of innocence that day.
One of the big moments in my childhood came in 1983 as Easter approached. Life at my elementary school at Joplin was already a challenge at times. I was the outsider who’d moved into town the year before.
Back in those days, I was far from a good student. Two years earlier, Dad talked my kindergarten teacher out of holding me back. Think about that for a minute. I damn near spent another year in kindergarten because I refused to circle the elephant that was different than the other three.
That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy school. I loved recess. I liked the girls, even at that age. I liked being around friends. I didn’t particularly care for the bullies, but that problem went away after a fight with the resident hoodlum. Turns out, grabbing the punk by the hair and throwing him down on his head after being taunted during kickball did a lot for my street cred.
Things were going OK in March 1983 as we geared up for another show-and-tell in Mrs. Robinson’s second-grade class. That was until Tim, the aforementioned street tough, decided to ruin the imagination of the entire class.
After several kids had finished their segments, Tim stepped in front of the class with nothing in his hands. This clearly wasn’t going to be a show day.
“Mine’s a tell,” he said. “I just want to let everybody know that there isn’t an Easter Bunny. I know because I saw my dad putting out eggs and I asked him, and he said there wasn’t.”
I’d never seen Mrs. Robinson, an elderly woman, move so quickly as she raced to the front of the class, grabbed Tim and showed him back to his desk. She was rattled. The class was stunned. I will never forget the gasps and looks of disappointment.
The big reveal weighed on me the rest of the day. I put two and two together during those hours of analysis: If there’s not an Easter Bunny … then is there really a Santa Claus? For a 7-year-old, any doubt that there is a Santa is stressful as hell.
Once I got home, I had to ask my parents. Dad and Mom say down with me and I asked them bluntly, “Are you guys Santa Claus?” My parents were always honest, and that didn’t change with this question.
It was a devastating moment. In one day, because of a clown at school, three important people in my life — Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy — lost their luster.
I thought about that today as I watched my 3-year-old granddaughter open her presents and talk about Santa. It reminded me of the first few years my wife and I were together and the kids believed. Is there anything more magical than Santa Claus at Christmastime?
I know there are parents out there who don’t let this no-so-little secret last for long. Some kids know before they turn 5. As I think about that day more than 36 years ago, I wish I’d believed a little longer. There’s nothing better than waking up to a pile of presents from Santa Claus. That magic never dies.