That enlightening moment opened the floodgates, and soon questions about childhood mythological figures began to pour forth. "What about the Easter Bunny, Mom? A bunny can't hold a basket, so how can he deliver them to our house? Mom, I really don't think there are Leprechauns."

And then it happened.

The most sacred of childhood folklore was called before the inquiring mind of a 7-year-old. I was able to change the subject on most occasions, but around October the questions began to intensify. "Mom, how does Santa go to all those houses in one night? What if you don't have a chimney? Does Santa make the toys or does he buy them?" And finally, "Mom, I really don't think there is a Santa Claus."

We were able to pacify my daughter for a while with: Santa is a spirit that is all around at Christmas. Or, "If you don't believe in Santa he won't bring you any presents." She began to get frustrated, until it finally boiled over into anger on Thanksgiving weekend. After engaging in the Santa dialogues for over an hour with all the relatives, she stood up and shouted, "Why won't somebody just tell me the truth!" And stormed from the room in tears.

All eyes were on me. This was the moment. The moment when the childhood myths we spin into magic become lies. I had to tell her the truth in a way that she would not feel we had deceived her all these years, but still keep the memories of magic. I found her huddled in the corner crying. I knew then that it had gone to far. "Nina," I said softly, "I'm in a very hard spot right now because Christmas is magic when you're little and I don't want that to end for you." There was nothing but angry silence. "Honey, what would you like me to do?" I asked. "Mom, I just want the truth," she replied softly, but fervently. I took a deep breath. "Alright. Santa is not real."

Nina then stood up, raised her hands above her head and brought her fists down to her waist in a sign of triumph. "Yea," she yelled. "Finally!" She was beaming, set free of the burden of proving Santa as fiction. This is not at all what I expected at this moment.

It was then that I realized the story of Santa, his reindeer, the elves, and the magical appearance of gifts was perpetuated by the need of a mother wanting to preserve the innocent faith of childhood. But, living in a world where information is, literally, at your fingertips, and media flashes sophisticated images to immature minds, wholesome fairytales are uninspiring to a child. What my daughter needed now was an adult whom she could rely on for the truth, someone whom she could trust to help her find her way in a confusing and overwhelming world. Parenting challenges were evolving too swiftly for my heart to accept.

But an amazing thing happened the next day. While at the mall Nina saw Santa's station. Her eyes glistened as she turned to me with innocent enthusiasm. "Mom, I want to be the first in line to see Santa!"

Once again I was unprepared for this reaction, but was filled with great relief that the pure child in her still lived. I smiled and held her hand while she waited her turn, and , watched with joy as she told Santa her Christmas wishes. Apparently, childhood challenges were evolving a little too swiftly for my daughter's heart to accept as well.

Ana Whitlock has lived in Willow Glen for more than 10 years. Her daughter, Nina, attends Willow Glen Elementary, and her son, Mitchell, 4, goes to Willow Glen United Methodist Preschool.