The "NP" in the title is for "Non-Political," which would seem to be an appropriate disclaimer on the Dark Side these days.

WARNING: This following post is decidedly soft and mushy and may not suitable for perusal by anyone with a low tolerance for sappy drivel....

Anybody ever have to tell a kid there's no such thing as Santa Claus/the Easter Bunny/etc.? If not, don't start today. It's a road better left untravelled.

My middle child had a tooth pulled yesterday, and the tooth next to it volunteered itself for an easy extraction later on. The result was a gaping hole in her mouth, which she proudly showed me as soon as I got home from work yesterday. All evening long there were hints dropped, and a final return to the events of the day was the last thing she said to me when I tucked her into bed. Despite all that, the cursed Tooth Fairy failed to show, and when my daughter awoke this morning, a few minutes earlier than usual, and found no financial reward for her bravery, she was most disappointed. Realizing there would be no fixing this the easy way, I resigned myself to reveal to her the Tooth Fairy's true identity, figuring the belated monetary gift might smooth things over. With hindsight, perpetuating the lies would have been a far better choice.

No sooner had the last syllable made its way off the tip of my tongue than she began to cry - not that loud, obviously forced cry parents get when they deny a child something he or she really wants, but that soft, sincere sobbing that says "Dad, you just cut me deep." The panic was on. Even through the tears, I could see the wheels of logic turning in her mind, and my greatest fear was realized when my oldest daughter, who was sitting next to the recently grief-stricken one, leaned over to her and audibly whispered, "It's OK, Autumn, Santa Claus is real," which was immediately followed by a telling, particularly emphatic series of sobs. My heart sank like a rock. The cat (as well as the rabbit, the fairy, the elves, you name it...) was out of the bag, once and for all.

After a few minutes of hugs, kisses, and assurances, things were starting to look up a bit, so I offered Autumn a fried egg sandwich (her favorite breakfast, and generally surefire brownie points for Dad). She happily accepted, much to my joy and relief. Of course, this wasn't the end of the ordeal, as just as I got the bread and cheese on the griddle, Autumn asked her mother to tell me that she couldn't have toast, due to the lingering discomfort in her mouth. Out of respect for my feelings, she had asked her mother to deliver what she thought might be disappointing news on her behalf. At that point, I really felt like a buffoon. She had considered my feelings over something as trivial as ingredients in a sandwich, where I had lacked the tact to find a way to keep the wonder and majesty of holidays alive and well in her sweet, innocent mind.

Faced with a similar challenge in the future, as I likely will be at some point with my youngest, given my propensity for forgetting important little details, I'll be digging a little deeper for plausible "explanations." It seems that sometimes a white lie is the only decent way to address a painful question....