Doubts of a 10 year old

I heard a knock on my door this morning while the kids were getting ready for school.  I expected it to be someone tattling, that is a favorite past time in our house right now.  I opened the door and Matthew came in, closing the door behind him and looking very serious.

“What is it?” I asked him, expecting to hear about Noah being mean to Sara or Bella not helping to straighten their room.

“Okay,” he started, and then took a deep breath as he studied my face and continued.  “I have been meaning to tell you this for a long time.  Like, a really long time.”

“How long?” I asked, trying to imagine what ridiculous thing was going to come out of his mouth next.  Did he lose a school paper I was supposed to sign?  Did he break something and hide it?  Did he find a cure for cancer?  The possibilities were endless and it was far too early for such hard thinking.

“Like, over a year,” he answered.  Over a year?  What on Earth could he need to tell me?  I instantly thought of my brother, the one who had severe abdominal pain for over ten years and never told anyone until he couldn’t stand it anymore.  He had a hernia, which was recently fixed through surgery, but holywhatareyouthinkingbatman, not telling anyone you were in pain for so long?  Being the worry wart anxiety stricken mami that I am, I started to panic, anticipating what he would say next.

“What is it?” I asked, praying that whatever horrific ailment he was about to share with me could be quickly and easily cured without surgery.

He took another deep breath and studied my face as the next sentence fell from his lips, “I know Santa isn’t real.”

I suddenly realized I had been uncomfortably holding my breath when I loudly exhaled, letting out a guttural sigh of relief.

“What do you mean?” I asked, curious to hear what he would say next.

“Mom.  I know Santa Claus is really you.  Like, I know.”  He emphasized that last word to let me know he meant business.  This was a very adult conversation he was having with his mother, he was getting older and felt he could have this mature discussion with me.  It’s like he doesn’t know me at all.

“You know what happens when you stop believing in Santa.  Socks and underwear for Christmas.”  I smiled, still utterly relieved that my son was perfectly healthy, despite my mind’s ability to instantly arrive at the worst case scenario and then multiply that tragedy by a million.

“Mom.  I’m serious.  I would never tell them or anything, but I know it’s you.”

“Okay.  Well, just remember that when you get lots of socks and underwear.”

“Mom.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, well, I’m more serious, I know.”

“You’re gonna need a bigger underwear drawer.”

He rolled his eyes and left.

Hey, we have a rule in our house.  Stop believing, stop receiving.  Also, don’t try to have serious conversations with mom.  :)

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