When the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, lies about St. Nicholas soon will be there.

For though the Yuletide means a great many things to a great many people, to me, it mostly means preparing myself to deceive.

It’s the season of giving for some, but, for me, it’s the season of lying.

In every other aspect of my parenting, I try to cultivate trust with my children. Whether they’re asking about death or about poop, I work hard to be honest, in the most age-appropriate way possible.

The other day, my older son asked me to explain, in detail, how sperm gets into a woman’s body. I did my best to give him a G-rated yet accurate accounting, knowing that I neither want to completely spoil his innocence nor provide content so explicit that he can’t safely repeat it at school. I told the truth, gently but completely.

Contrast that to our recent conversations about Santa, during which I do nothing other than lob falsehoods his way.

“Will we see Santa this year?”

“Of course. We’ll see him at the mall.”

“Why does he go to the mall?”

“To, um, find out what kids want for Christmas.”

“How does he remember all of that?”

“He … has a really good memory.”

“Have I met Santa before?”

“Uh, yes, we went to the mall a few years ago.”

“Will he know my name?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you said he had a really good memory.”

The kids want to know why Santa doesn’t give grown-ups presents. They want to know what gets you on the naughty list and whether those on it really get coal for Christmas. They want to know whether Santa ever gets sick of cookies.

I’m sure that the older one will notice that the Mall Santa looks a little different than the Tree-Lighting Santa and even more different than Thanksgiving Day Parade Santa.

I don’t know what I’ll say in explanation, but whatever it is, it will be a lie.

So I lie about Santa, I lie about our chimney and the North Pole and the Polar Express train and the elves.

Boy, do I lie about the elves.

I lie about the Elf on the Shelf, that fiendish invention, and why he looks like a doll but is actually a magical creature capable of seeing through walls and hearing conversations held on other floors of the house.

“Why doesn’t Smokey Choo-Choo move when I can see him?” (Our elf was christened Smokey Choo-Choo several years ago and though they’ve tried to change his name, the new one never sticks.)

“The book says Santa told him not to move when we can see him.”

“Why? That’s mean. He needs to stretch his legs.”

(I agree, kid, that would be cruel, if Smokey Choo-Choo were anything other than a bolt of fabric stuffed with polyester filling.)

Why is the Elf on the Shelf so small? Why do his eyes always look to the side, as if he were caught in the middle of some illegal activity? When does Smokey Choo-Choo sleep, and where on Earth does he poop?

After all this lying, I can do nothing other than hang my head in shame.

If there were a naughty list, I’d deserve to be on it.

One day, I’ll have to stop all the Christmas lying and figure out a way to explain myself. But not today. Not this year. Not now.

Because while I still have the chance, I’ll relish the tales of Santa, of magic, of complex Christmas miracles.

It’s not a lie, after all, if you believe it, too.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

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