Smith Family Weblog

This title is, of course, totally unfair, but let me explain…

Recently, Ava has expressed that she “just feels seven,” as if the impact of this new number has suddenly hit home. When I visit her room at 7 am, I find the door closed, with holiday-themed “Elves at Work” do not disturb sign hanging from the knob. The first time I encountered this, I was most definitely disturbed, and I swung open the door, only to find her fully dressed and tidying up around an already made bed. This strange behavior has continued throughout the week, and her newfound responsibility and maturity has spilled over into other areas as well.

Case in point: My intrepid seven-year-old arrived home after school last night, looked me straight in the eye and said:

“Mom. I need you to tell me the truth. Santa and the Easter Bunny aren’t real, right? You and Dad put out the presents, don’t you?”

I sidestepped, asking what prompted such a question. Apparently, the first grade class is divided, with half believing and half doubting. Ava felt she absolutely needed to know. RIGHT NOW.

I told her that I most definitely believed in the spirit of Santa.

It didn’t work.

I tried my own mother’s line: “You know, if you stop believing in Santa, he might not come anymore…”

This also failed.

At this point, I did what I usually do when faced with tough questions like, “How did the seed from Daddy get into your belly to make the baby?” and “What’s the difference between a planet and a star?” That is, I promptly directed her to her father.

And then, everything started spinning.

Bryan sat Ava down and told her that she was a smart and inquisitive child. He said she was seven now, and that he’d answer any question she had honestly. And then, when she asked again, he simply said, “No, there’s no Santa.”

While Ava sat there thoughtfully, I burst into uncontrollable sobs, a misstep I am sure will be far more memorable than the actual realization itself.

It seems terribly unfair that there’s only seven years of the magic that comes with such a belief. I was completely and totally unprepared for this phase to end—I had honestly never contemplated it before, and now, there was nothing that could be done. It was just . . . over.

I tried to regain composure, stifling sniffles as Bryan said, “It’s okay, Mommy just really loves Christmas,” and thinking to myself, “Why don’t you just put her on the pill and send her to college?”

I will also admit that at some point (and I think it’s fair to blame hormones here), I said both “Well, at least I have the NEW baby,” and “So help me God, if you tell your sister, Santa will never bring you another present again.”

Later in the evening, somewhere around the fourth or fifth time Ava checked to make sure I was okay, I regained some sensibility, apologized for my reaction, and told her that she was now—at least in part—responsible for carrying forth the spirit that allowed other children to believe. I said, she’d have to be an “elf at work.”

She promised me she’d do her very best, and I believe her.

I mean, she is SEVEN, after all.