Watching TV with the kids for the last few months has been challenging. Every commercial sparks a fresh round of “Santa, I want that” mutterings. Today Jake dragged me in to watch a commercial for an $80 remote control helicopter. “That’s what I want,” he said. I told him that $80 was too much to spend on a toy.

“No, no, Mom. I want Santa to bring it. You don’t have to buy anything. Santa will take care of it. He doesn’t need money. The elves will make it.” He sat back on the couch, quite satisfied, and resumed viewing the tube.

I love his logic and arguments almost as much as his logic and arguments frustrate me. But I got to thinking about The Year my mother sat me in the kitchen and gave me the inside scoop on the jolly right elf. I remember feeling crushed by the knowledge, and a bit ambivalent about the lengths to which she had gone to maintain the magic for me for so many years. I remember standing up and laughing to let her know it was OK, and telling her at least there’s still the Easter Bunny. She had to call me back to the table.

I’m not looking forward to that conversation, especially not with Jake. I think Anna will be alright. Anna, who alternately pretends to be a cat and a 7-year-old named Emily, will get it. Jake, who rejects make believe and yearns to know how things work, will have a hard time. But until then, I can watch them enjoy the season with wonder in their eyes.