Echo of your magic

I didn't trick you into believing so much as you made me believe again.

Note: This post contains references to secrets you might not yet want your children to know.

Dear one, when I buried the ice-blue gem and wrote the note for you in tiny scribbled lettering, I wasn’t thinking that someday I’d have to see your crestfallen face on the cusp of adulthood, years after you figured out the bearded man and the tooth-stealing fairy but still hadn’t tracked the last mythical being of your childhood to my own hand.

A pang of guilt hit me like a lightning bolt as I hung suspended in that moment before I had to tell you the truth.

Yes, I’d deceived you in this, and I could tell this one hurt you more than the others.

I never planned to trick you into believing in magic. Or at least it never felt like a trick. Not for a second.

It’s that you were magic and you still are magical to me. From your early spiraling within me to the joy that springs out of you in your stories and in your art, you made me see magic again.

It felt only natural to echo your magic back to you.

Photo by micheile henderson on Unsplash

I know there are adults who won’t participate in any ruses against their children, tradition be damned, and I respect that, I do.

I get why people see these elaborate hoaxes as lying, and I understand why they reject all dishonesty against the tiny, world-new beings in their care. I admire that protectiveness. I relate to it.

But I didn’t play it that way. With my own lap full of chubby legs and grasping fingers and sparkling eyes, I understood for the first time in my life that pragmatism was a lie and adulthood was the farce.

Reality was so subjective all of a sudden. My reality was us giggling together, wide awake in the middle of night, groggy beside you in the late afternoon, stories mixed with lessons mixed with love.

Childhood was king: technicolor and real in all of its wild possibility.

Childhood was something for me to hold onto during those strange and beautiful years, with a pull as strong as any religion.

I remember the early chimney and tooth truthers from my own school days, the kids who had figured it out or maybe always knew. There was a long time where I managed to keep their awareness on the periphery of my own, even when they told me all about it.

In this way, my own understanding of the great ruse came in pieces and not all at once. There was no significant moment of horror, just many years where I was pretty sure the call was coming from inside of the house but I decided not to know it.

Somehow, I managed to insulate myself from my knowing. I held onto the rush of excitement and belief. The magic.

Photo by Charlein Gracia on Unsplash

Dear one, you pieced things together in first grade and asked me to confirm your suspicions. I wanted to hold the knowing back from you, but that did feel like lying since you asked me so directly.

I let go and said all of the things you’re supposed to say, blurting one part confession and one part hope.

You’d know from that point on that I was capable of deceiving you, that all adults and in fact so much of the world including the NORAD was in on this strange conspiracy.

I hoped you’d understand why I did it. But more than that, I hoped you would find a way to feel a rush of excitement and belief.

I wanted you to still feel the magic, not just my love.

For these years as your mama, I’ve lived in magic with you.

As you grow into this gorgeous adult-mimicking creature, I’m at once in awe of the magic you still spin, and nostalgic for that world we used to inhabit together, the one of fairies and elves and mermaids, the one where anything was possible for both of us.

Reality has gotten so much more real every damn year, and honestly, I’m over it. For you, and for me.

Photo by Lubomirkin on Unsplash

When you were little, a blade of grass told a story. A forest contained a fairy universe. Your pencil was most powerful of all. Once you finally trusted yourself to make it, your art was a portal into the unknown, into that odd and beautiful and surprising world that lived inside of your head.

That world is still there, bright and beautiful, but it can’t come out when you’re texting.

I’m grateful you’re so connected to your friends and so grounded in your school responsibilities. You’re so thoughtful and beautiful and kind and smart, you glow. It really is reassuring to see your life moving forward after the strange pandemic regression we all went through.

But parenting a teen exists in a crowded little crawlspace crammed with nostalgia and pride.

At night, you come into my room and talk to me when I’m woozy with sleep. Sometimes you roll your back into me, and with my eyes closed I can easily travel the path with you back into the forest of your childhood where anything was possible, where a kind fairy left you gems and letters with writing that was just a tiny version of my own.

Thank goodness it took you so long to figure that one out. I wish you never did, but baby, I can’t stop you from growing up.

You can’t stay little, but please remember the magic of your childhood, not just my love.