I still remember the day that I found out about Santa. I was in third grade and was one of the last holdouts in my elementary school class. I firmly believed in Santa Claus, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary. A hand-painted toybox give to us by Santa had so strongly resembled a storage box that had been in one of our sheds, that I pointed it out. I was sternly corrected that it was not the same box, even though that storage box was no longer in the shed. The price tag for my Mickey Mouse watch that Santa gave me one year was still attached to the leather watchband that the elves had allegedly made. I still held out.
The last straw came on a Sunday when I was reading the Parade magazine section of the Sunday paper, and the question of the week to celebrities was posed to Alan Alda: "When did you find out there was no Santa Claus?" I was very upset. Not because there was no Santa, but because I had been wrong and I had been lied to. And then when I was asked to perpetuate the myth for my younger brother and sister I became complicit in the conspiracy.
I'm not looking forward to the day I have to admit to my daughter, who's currently three, that we lied to her. She won't be fooled for long with small mistakes, though. We'll probably be busted when she figures out that Santa couldn't possibly afford the licensing fees required to make Mickey Mouse watches and still give them away for free.