We had 11 years. It was a good run. Really good. Eleven years of putting out cookies, writing letters, standing in line for photos and staying up late in order to set out the special gifts as a surprise. But this past Christmas was our last one where Santa Claus was still a thing.
Earlier this month we were driving home from doctor appointments and haircuts, music playing loudly. It couldn’t have been a more mundane, nearly-spring day. My youngest, a third-grader, was seated behind me and out of nowhere asked, “Hey Mom, is Santa really real, or is it just you and Dad?” If a jukebox could have screeched to a halt, it would have. My middle-schooler gave me a panicked side-eye from the other front seat and slinked down as if he could hide from the conversation that was about to unfold.
I took a deep breath, pulled my best therapist trick, and answered him with another question: “Well, honey, that’s a great question. What do you think the answer is?”
And, in classic, kid-of-a-therapist style, he was not the least bit distracted by my shenanigans and replied, “Well, I don’t know the answer. That’s why I’m asking you. Is he real or not?”
And just like that, the Season of Santa Claus came to an end.
I feel lucky that I knew it was our last one while it was happening. I was careful to savor it, really remember it. Putting out cookies was a production. The Santa gifts were big this year, so his final hurrah was a good one. I’m grateful for all of that because many times when a season ends, you don’t see it coming and only realize it much later, after it has long been gone. But the truth is, they all end. Every season, good or bad, will have its conclusion. Some end, and we cheer. The Season of Potty Training, I’m looking at you. Others we mourn and crave when they are gone. The Season of Small-Enough-to-Snuggle-Your-Whole-Little-Body-in-My-Lap? That’d be you.
Later that same day, my middle-schooler walked across the living room with what looked like paper hanging out of his mouth. It took a second to register and I hollered after him as he went up the stairs, “Hey, what’s that in your mouth? Are you OK?” He casually stepped back down and said, “Yeah. I just lost a tooth and it’s bleeding a lot. I think that was my last one. So, big money for the last one, right?” He winked and headed back upstairs with such ease that I was stunned and confused about how to feel. His last one? Really? Wait, he just lost a molar without making a peep and probably wouldn’t have even mentioned it if I hadn’t seen him with the tissue in his mouth? What is happening right now?
And then I was flooded with memories of other seasons that have ended.
That evening years ago when I realized I had most likely just nursed my baby for the very last time. It was night and the room was barely lit, and I was in a chair I felt I had spent years of my life rocking in, with the heavy, still weight of his little body hot in my arms, my shoulders aching. I tried to memorize every detail of his face, his eyelashes, the swirls of his ear, and how peaceful he seemed as he drifted off to sleep.
That day my toddler wriggled out of my husband’s arms to race over to the playground. As my husband sent him gently off to the slide he looked at me and said, “You know, one of these times when I put him down, it will be the last time…and I won’t even know it when it is happening. Such a monumental thing to miss.” My eyes filled with tears as I watched our son climbing the stairs, and I started strategizing how to keep that from ever happening. But I knew he was right.
That afternoon I collected all the remaining pull-ups from diaper bags and purses and around the house and threw them out.
That evening I washed and rinsed hair for the last time as he protested and claimed he could do it himself…and from then on, he did.
That morning we measured him and took the booster seat out of the car for good.
The day I left the house without them and there was no nanny home with them for the first time.
With each of these milestones is the opportunity to grieve the passing season and yearn for whatever we are losing. But, in my never-ending quest to be more mindful and present, I’m trying very hard to also look for that which I can be grateful and all the gorgeous potential the next season likely holds. At its very core, parenting is a years-long process of letting go…and, as I let go over and over and over again, I hope to also hold onto the gifts that each phase is revealing.
Gratitude for a season of Santa that holds so many precious memories.
Gratitude for a low-drama kid who is so self-reliant.
Gratitude for being able to nurse them at all.
Gratitude for a spirit of independence that means he wants to do it himself.
Gratitude for relief in some caretaking responsibilities and the newly freed-up moments in each evening.
Gratitude for the convenience of no longer lugging car seats around.
Gratitude for so many years of reliable, delightful childcare and the money saved now that they don’t need supervision all the time.
Gratitude for whatever joys and challenges the next season will bring.
Because I now live in a house without the mystery of Santa Claus and only one mouth still full of baby teeth, I will certainly relish every time I am still asked to help tie a shoe a little tighter and to “please come tuck me in.” And I will wonder, will this time be the last time?
