As we prepared for the Easter egg hunt at our daughter’s preschool, an unexpected question pierced the morning air. Clutching her Easter basket and dressed like a young pre-teen, she burst into my bathroom, where the blow-dryer was humming, and asked, “Is the Tooth Fairy real? You said Tinker Bell is make-believe, so does that mean the Tooth Fairy isn’t real either? And what about the Easter Bunny—do parents hide the eggs and fill the baskets too?”
I was taken aback, momentarily frozen, trying to mask my surprise while muttering, “Oh no!” under my breath. Why was it always me who faced these challenging queries? She had already inquired about the origins of babies and whether I was the one leaving money from the Tooth Fairy. In the past, I typically responded with, “What do you think?” but this time, she wasn’t going to buy into that.
“I think parents do it. So, is the Easter Bunny real? How does he even get in without setting off the alarm?” she pressed.
There it was—the defining moment. I had always promised myself that I would be honest when the time came. While I cherished the magic of childhood, I recognized that as she matured, the time for these whimsical beliefs was dwindling. I felt the urge to tell her, “Yes, sweetheart, it’s parents who create the magic. The Easter Bunny isn’t real; it’s us,” but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I managed to say, “Can we discuss this later, just the two of us?”
That seemed to satisfy her, but I knew I had to reflect on what this revelation meant. I realized I wasn’t just preserving the magic for her; I was also clinging to every precious moment of her childhood because it was slipping away too quickly for my liking.
After the event, my husband and I took a moment to strategize. He was open to telling her the truth if she asked again, but he didn’t want to create pressure by saying, “If you believe, you will receive.” We were also concerned about her possibly revealing the truth to her friends and younger sister. I spent the day searching online for guidance and even consulted our pastor at church.
That evening, when it was just the two of us, I felt ready to have the conversation. After tucking in her younger sister, I tiptoed to her room, took a deep breath, and mustered my courage.
“Hey sweetie, what are you up to?” I asked as I entered her room, hoping to buy some time.
“I’m writing a letter to the Easter Bunny,” she replied. “I’m not sure what to say, but I thought maybe we could leave him a present this year?”
I smiled and said, “Great idea! Let me know when you’re finished, and we can read it together.”
She was at that delicate stage between little girl and almost a tween, still captivated by magic. In that moment, I decided to trust my instincts and give her one more year filled with Easter Bunny wonder. One more year of candy-filled eggs scattered throughout the house, one more year of joy in her eyes from make-believe.
Next year, honesty would be the path forward, but for now, we would relish these enchanted moments.
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In summary, as we navigate the delicate balance of childhood magic and growing up, we must cherish these fleeting moments while preparing for the truths that lie ahead.