Shattered Illusions

“Why does the queen get all the money?!” Miss Seven asked one day, studying the royal profile on a $2 coin. “It’s not fair, what about the King? He doesn’t get any.”

“Well I don’t think the King is as important as the queen,” I responded.

“But that’s not very nice. They should both be important.”

Ah yes, she was quite right but how does one explain monarchy?

I thought we’d left the whole “Why is the sky blue?” behind in the toddler years but, in actual fact, the questions just keep coming.

This will be Master nine’s first Christmas as a non-Santa believer and the twin’s last. 

When Master Nine put his theory to me halfway up Mt Manaia mid-year, I knew by the look in his eyes there was to be no bluffing this time. But he was told if he wanted to continue awakening to a filled stocking on Christmas morning, then he wasn’t to spoil it for the twins.

He’s kept his mouth shut.

However, Master Seven is starting to get suspicious.

“Mum, how can Santa fit down our chimney – he’s way too fat?!” he asked the other day.

Looking at our tapered chimney, I had to agree it was a ridiculous notion.

“He just climbs through our window,” chimed in Miss Seven.

There are safety latches on all our windows, rendering the gap as small as the chimney so I had to play along and point this out.

“Well then how does he get in?!” demanded Master Seven.

“Maybe I left the door open that night.”

A sharp intake of breath: “What?! But then the baddies will come in and rob us!”

Yes, it will be their last as believers and therefore the last year I can play the “Santa’s little elves are watching you” card when they are misbehaving.

“But where are they Mummy,” asks Miss Seven, looking all around. “And why do they have such funny ears and why would they just come into your house?!”

It will be bittersweet to finally come clean. Enough of the lies but the innocent joy that magical fantasy brings will be lost forever. I can feel the disappointment already. Only last week I had to shatter an illusion to my boys.

Every week while their sister is at Brownies, we do the loop together. The boys had scootered ahead and were enthusiastically carrying out a work-out on the gym equipment by the time I got there.

“When do we get our hot dog anyway?” I heard one of them asking as I approached.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It says there, if you do enough exercise, you get a hot dog.”

I looked where they were pointing at the signs behind the gym equipment. It had a Health Guide stating that one hot dog equals approximately 40 minutes of moderate exercise. The word hot dog was illustrated with a tantalising picture of an American hot dog.

I had to break it to them that a hot dog doesn’t magically appear out of thin air if they do enough exercise. Their enthusiasm waned a little after that.