No Santa: Growing Up Sorta Sucks

My oldest daughter is almost 12 years old, and up until about 15 hours ago, she still kinda sorta maybe believed in Santa Claus. (Yeah, I know. We were astounded, too.)

But all good things must come to an end. Last night, we were talking about her desk, and I made the classic mistake of saying something like, "Well, when we bought this for you, we were thinking you could use it for...yada yada yada." Annnnd...yep. You guessed it. The desk was a gift from Santa.

I've been caught in similar slip ups before, and I've always managed to talk my way out of them. But this time, I decided to not even try. I mean, she's in middle school. The conversation felt almost ridiculously overdue, and I thought I would merely be confirming something that she already knew, not revealing some potentially devastating secret. So when she asked me the inevitable question, I did not dodge it. I answered honestly.

About 30 minutes of intense, angry, desolate sobbing ensued.

In many ways, Emma is a mature kid. She gets herself up early in the mornings for band and chorus practice, packs her own lunch, gets out the door and to the bus...many times before I've even woken up. She gets excellent grades in school, managing her own homework and deadlines with virtually no assistance from us. Her teachers rave about her focus and dedication and responsibility. And she is starting to become more sophisticated in her thinking, understanding the world around her more and asking insightful questions about society as a whole.

But in other ways, mostly emotionally, she is still sooooooooooo young.

The tween dichotomy between little girl and young woman is very real. Sometimes Emma seems so grown up to me, a casual look or throwaway comment from her can almost make me weep. Yet other times, I'm rendered speechless by her immaturity and naivete. She switches from flippant and superior to whiny and needy on a dime. It's hard to navigate between these polar opposites, and frankly, I often get lost. She desperately wants to be treated like a teenager...but she's not there yet. I am always struggling to know when to give her space, respect her boundaries, let her work things out on her own, and when to rock her in my arms like a baby...like my baby, which she still is. I often get it wrong - giving her one thing when she needs the other.  It's a dance - a delicate, complicated, constant dance. And sometimes we step on each others' toes. But we keep on dancing.

Regardless of her age and maturity, she has always been very sensitive. Hearing her sob and wail over Santa made me want to permanently wrap her heart in bubble wrap before sending her back out into the world. She's like an exposed nerve ending with legs. Her emotional vulnerability terrifies me. I want her to toughen up, and I want her to never change. Grow a protective layer of cynicism, and yet never lose touch with her feelings. Be both practical and open, hard and soft, fierce and tender. But how to be both? Why can't she be both? Yet how can I teach her to be both, when I'm still learning those things for myself?

After she had a good cry over the loss of Santa, she seemed much better. Fine, in fact. Before going to sleep, she told me, "Mommy, I already knew Santa wasn't real. In my head. But I still believed in my heart. Is it okay if I still believe in my heart?"

Always, Em. Always.