Monday, February 04, 2013

Yet another memory of my mother.

When I was seven years old, I asked my mom if Santa Claus was real.
"No", she replied as she casually turned the page of the newspaper.
"And we've been buying all your toys, each Christmas."

And that was it. I'd had an inkling of the truth, and I felt a bit more mature at that moment; closer to the smart-alecks at school, who'd planted the seed of Santa's validity in my head. But the child that was still strong within me, wished it weren't so. At any rate, I didn't really dwell on it, nor was I disappointed at my mother's candor — I was rather inured to her bluntness, and so I continued playing with my Cowboys and Indians (Indians always won, for those keeping score).

A few days later, mom asked me if I thought my father loved her. Instead of thinking, I instinctively, reactively, blurted out the truth.

My mom didn't respond, or show a reaction of any kind. She just continued reading the newspaper, unfazed. I felt guilty. Though it didn't appear to hurt her.
Or did it? Because her next words were:

"Oh by the way", the Easter Bunny is fake, too."


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