When will I die?

I make it a habit not to lie to my son. Well, except for when it comes to Old Saint Nick.

We celebrated Christmas in our fractionally Jewish, half-Persian household. Both my wife and I tiptoed into the holiday lore with our four-year-old. It’s the first year our son “got” the idea of Christmas, and every step we took — every lie we shared — we committed further to the story of Santa.

He thirsted for more information on this Claus guy, asking warm-up questions:

“Where does Santa live?”

North Pole. Aced it!

“What do the elves do?”

Prep gifts and help Santa. Look at my encyclopedic knowledge of the holiday!

Do some children accept the answers to basic questions and move forward with their day? I cannot know, because I only have my kid and he’s poking me for more. I haven’t prepared for this exam. The inquiry gets progressively harder.

“How does Santa fly all around the world in one night?”

Uhhh, well, there’s this sleigh, reindeer, and magic. It’s like he already knows the physical improbability, as he carefully eyes me. He’s skeptical, but accepts the answer… for now.

“Will Santa die?”

We’ve faced a lot of these death questions from our son recently. He’s heard people at school talk about it and we’ve occasionally mentioned the loss of an animal or insect. But now we are circling around something unspeakably painful. I don’t want to talk about this with him nor share this with you.

I say, “No, Santa won’t die.”

Every response is an omission. A redirection.  A lie. The joy and magic of Christmas are wonderful, but the lies create a moral injury. Is this what all parents feel?

My responses bring more questions. He understands in whatever way a four-year-old can that people die. In his mind, it’s logical: Why not Santa, too? But other things are lurking around the bend of this conversation. I can see where this is heading. I don’t want him to go there, but he does.

“When will I die?” he asks. His delivery is feathery and light — weightless. He might as well be asking if it’s sunny outside. My wife and I dissociate in our own ways. She walks away hurriedly, grabbing her face, shielding herself from us. I sit in horror.

It’s such an innocent, fair question, but our hearts bend and break. My chest hurts and I don’t want to speak. I pretend silence will make the question go away — along with the existential reality.

Lie after lie, we’ve crafted this fragile story about Santa. He believes us. I could do the same right now and say, “No, you won’t die. Mom and Dad won’t die.” If there were ever a time to fib, it would be here. I’ve been practicing over the last few weeks.

I can’t bear to lie about this, though. It's not some silly question about elves. Nor can I be as blasé as if it were merely a sequel to the Everybody Poops anthology. I’m guessing Everybody Dies would be far less popular in the “Children’s Books on the Body” category of Amazon.

I’d love to say to you dear reader, “Look at me! I’m a smart, perfect psychologist — watch how I astutely answered my son’s question.” But it wasn’t like that at all.

I was sad. My eyes welled up. I wanted to look away. I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I squeaked, “We never know when, but we all die someday.”

A bubble burst inside me. We weren’t playing house anymore. I’m not immortal and neither is my son. While logically obvious, it’s hellish to say. I wish I could truthfully tell him otherwise.

I still don’t have the perfect response, but struggle to lie to him about this. I cannot dig a hole of unreality for us to make believe. It hurts to pretend and it hurts to tell the truth. All hurts being equal, I’d rather choose the honest one today.

As kids do, he switched topics and asked for a bagel with cream cheese. It was like nothing happened. I, on the other hand, am still picking up the pieces.