I sort of tread lightly around the idea of Santa Claus.
Don't get me wrong. I'm no scrooge, but I simply don't like to encourage the belief that, instead of me getting Lily gifts, there is a fat jolly old bitch who sneaks in the window (we live in an apartment, so we've had to revise the story somewhat...no chimney. So Santa is a sort of creepy cat burglar), and brings her presents that he made in his 'toyshop' (China).
While I certainly don't want to have that kid who marches into kindergarten and ruins Christmas for all her pals by announcing that Santa is bullshit, I'm not a big fan of lying to my daughter, either. Especially when I'm a hardworking single mama who isn't that keen on letting some made up guy take credit for bringing my kid shit that my hard-earned dollars bought, that my tired ass waited in line at Kay Bee's going out of business sale to purchase, that I spent precious work hours online at Amazon to order.
Still, there is merit to the magic of Santa. I have learned much since last Christmas.
But. Unless Lily comes out and asks me if Santa is real, which she hasn't, I sort of just don't mention him. He's there in the backdrop, a nice idea, part of a Christmas parable that makes the holiday more magical and sweet. But I think the holiday is about so much more than presents and Santa Claus. I don't really talk about him that much, and I certainly don't weild him as a weapon to keep Lily's behavior in line, as so many American parents seem to do. There's this secretary at work, who I hear daily screaming on the phone at her four year old, "Stop hitting Grandpa, or Santa won't bring you any toys!!!"