“For Christmas this year,” Matthew told me,” I want a computer, a cell phone and a gas powered leaf blower. I might also want a stack of dollars, too.” Matthew is 23 years old and has autism.

“We’ll see,” I replied. “That’s a lot of stuff. Why don’t you write it all down and we’ll think about it.”

“No,” he said, “I already wrote a letter to Santa Claus, so I will surely get everything.”

Another year, and another attempt to let Matthew know that his parents are actually Santa Claus, a concept he refuses to accept.

"There's really no one right time to tell kids that there's no Santa Claus," says Glen R. Elliott, PhD, MD Chief Psychiatrist and Medical Director at the Children’s Health Council in Palo Alto, CA. "The important thing is to take your cues from the child, and not try to prolong the fantasy for your own enjoyment when they may be ready to give it up."

I got those cues from Matthew’s younger brothers, Andy and John, but none at all from Matthew.

Andy asked about Santa Claus when he was 7. “Are you guys actually Santa?” he asked. When we fessed up, he wept with relief. “I’ve been so worried about reindeer falling through the roof.” He did a good job of hiding the truth from baby brother John, who would learn about Santa from a friend at during recess when he was also seven.

When Matthew turned sixteen, his teachers at his school scolded me for babying Matthew when I offered to send him 16 birthday balloons.

“You have got to stop treating him like a child”, he said “He’s a teenager and way too old for balloons.”

I took what Matthew’s teacher said to heart. I got rid of Matthew’s Sponge Bob and Spiderman t-shirts (I know-I’m embarrassed) and replaced them with Quick Silver t-shirts. I hid Matthew’s Lego’s and Pokemon cards and hired Ben, a college student, to help interest him in more age appropriate activities. The two played basket ball, rode bikes, listened to music and played video games.  One day during Christmas break, the two went bowling, and Matthew came home exhilarated.

“Guess who I saw at the bowling alley. SANTA CLAUS!”

I let it go then. But Matthew is 23 years old now, for crying out loud. Just minutes before he told me about his letter to Santa, he asked his dad where he could meet some hot girls. I had to make another stab at the truth.

“Matthew,” I said, “that’s nice that you wrote Santa a letter, but come on. You know that Dad and I are really Santa Claus.

“Mom,” groaned impatiently “I know Santa Claus is real.  I see him everywhere. I saw him at the airport two times, and at the bowling alley three times. One time I saw him at the mall. He always remembers who I am. Santa Claus is real,” he said “and we’re not going to talk about it anymore.” He stomped out of the room, but then returned for the finale.

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he growled like Jack Bauer in 24, “ and I want you to answer me. IS Santa Claus real, or IS he pretend?”

“He’s real,” I mumbled.

“THAT’S right,” Matthew replied, “now, what are we having for dinner?”

There is always next year.

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