to leave trace evidence of our DNA in case of an abduction,” my second born cries out to me. She means this as an indictment, but I receive it as an award. I trained them in all things realistic. Puppy dog eyes and playful pouty lips would never serve their cause. Only a logical rendering, a well-organized argument would cause me to entertain their point of view. I could be swayed with logic and words. Tears? Emotional appeals? Save those for the soft-brained. I had no use for them. And so my children limped through their childhood, housed in a physical poverty (by now Prince Charming had ridden off on our only reliable horse), but rich in discussion and meaning, I felt my children were prepared to take on the world. Oh, there were numerous mistakes along the way, Turning our basement into a homeless shelter, offering unquestioned devotion to a religious cult, pushing my education into the “do it later” basket that already held the discarded garment of “find your self-esteem” among other ill-fitting articles. These were my failings. But I held proudly to my credo that my children would enter their adult lives skeptically prepared for anything. My son, now sixteen voices his own discontent with my values. “When I was five, you told me Santa Claus was dead,” He says with little emotion. Like my first born, he tends towards a cerebral search for answers. The second born, all wild emotion and helter-skelter passion was the most affected by my deliberate job description. It lacked fundamentals that met her necessities. She could never understand the comfort of cool logic, the satisfying pleasure of a cogent argument, preferring instead to be coddled by fanciful imagination. While I felt confident I was serving a balanced diet of reason and rationality, my second born felt rationed and malnourished for want of a spontaneous hug or some sort of playful make-believe. My son is waiting for a response to his Santa Claus comment. “I told you the truth of the man behind the myth, yes.” I can offer no further solace because, beyond the purity of truth, I feel I have none to offer. But I do add, as a concessioned caveat, “The myth of Santa Claus, however, is a beautiful and necessary ideal.” It’s doubtful these three find much of anything beautiful in the way I carved out a place for them. But I feel certain that, one day, they will understand why I felt it was necessary.
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