Tiptoeing into my daughter's bedroom in the middle of the night, I stop to listen for the sound of slow, deep breathing that tells me she's truly asleep. I hear the thick hum of children dreaming and carefully move forward. There are toys everywhere, piles of books beside the bed. Our cat stares at me in confusion and I will him not to move, lest he wake the child he's curled up beside.

There's a subtle shift in position from the small frame on the bed, and I drop silently to my knees. The stillness quickly returns, but I know my time may be short. More panicked than I should ever be in my own home, I quickly place a chocolate bunny at the foot of her bed and leave a trail of Easter eggs back to the door, practically flying back into the hallway. Fuck yeah, I did it! Now I have to successfully repeat the same mission in my son's room. Only then will I go to sleep—victorious, but also worried the treats will attract bugs in the night.

Just another night as Mom, the keeper of magical lies.

I am of two hearts about the mythical beings of childhood. There's nothing like seeing your kids' faces light up with joy at the sight of the Easter Bunny's chocolate eggs or presents from Santa. A visit from the Tooth Fairy brings them far more pleasure than it should, given the terrifying concept of a small winged creature making off with teeth in the middle of the night. My own childhood memories are tied up in these moments—Easter egg hunts, digging into a stocking on Christmas morning, coins under my pillow where a tooth used to be—and I've done my best to create those memories for my own kids. I want them to feel the same thrilling anticipation when they know magic is near, however strange or unbelievable it might be, willing themselves to fall asleep so they can wake up to something extraordinary.

So I put in the work to make holidays special for my family. I've carried on my family's traditions and helped create our own. I've snuck into dark rooms more times than I can count, snatched teeth from under pillows, baked cookies with overtired children on Christmas Eve, chewed on carrots left for reindeer, forged letters from St. Nick, and feigned surprise when my children delightedly told me about these things the next morning.

I'm also over it. I'm more or less ready for my kids to figure out that, much like the Great and Powerful Oz, holiday magic is just me creating illusions from behind a curtain. I may be a fraudster, but I'm one with good intentions.

I've never told my kids that Santa is real. I've certainly implied it—particularly when I leave special gifts under the tree and sign them Love, Santa—but I've never flatout argued on behalf of his existence. Between school, commercials, pop culture, and grandparents, they've been thoroughly sold on the existence of the jolly giftgiver. I just haven't done anything to make them believe otherwise. And when they ask questions? I become a master avoider. I gaslight the hell out of my children about Christmas, and I will continue to do so until they force me to answer with a simple yes or no.

"Mama," my younger child has asked me. "Is Santa real?" 

"Hmmm," I reply seriously. "What makes you ask?"

"Because there's no way Santa can get all the way around the world in one night, and he always leaves exactly what we want, every year. And reindeer can't actually fly." 

"Those are interesting points," I concede. "What do you think?"

"Well, I think it's you, because we tell Santa what we want, and he gets it. But also, the stockings. The stockings always have our favourite stuff, and we've never asked Santa for any of that. He wouldn't know. But you know." 

"I do know what you like," I admit. "But part of the magic of Christmas is believing."

"Do you believe in Santa?" my son asks.

I hesitate, then answer slowly. "I believe in the magic of Christmas, and maybe part of that means choosing to believe in Santa. Not thinking about logic or what makes sense, and just believing in the spirit of Christmas. So in that sense, I choose to believe." 

"But you're the one that brings the presents and does the stockings probably," my son begins, then changes course optimistically. "Or maybe you tell Santa what we like?" 

"Anything is possible," I say with a shrug. "You can choose to believe whatever you want to. Do you want to believe in Santa?" 

"Yeah, but I think it's you."

"Well, maybe just enjoy Christmas then and try not to worry so much."

He's satisfied with this for now, and exudes happiness on Christmas Day. 

My older child is either a hard-core believer or a really good faker. Likely it's a bit of both: she wants to believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny so badly that she convinces herself they're real, no matter the evidence. When her brother questions the existence of Santa's elves, she is horrified. She tells me about the kids in her class who don't believe and seems incredulous, but other times she gives me a wink that suggests she knows more than she lets on. Shortly before Easter one year, she casually mentioned how much she liked those chocolate carrots the Easter Bunny had brought last year. Then, looking me dead in the eye: "It would be really great if we got those again this year. You know?"

I laughed, raising an eyebrow. "Suggestion noted."

She nodded back with a smirk. "Thanks, Mama." 

Easter came around, and she was thrilled when the bunny came through. "He got our favourite kind of chocolates! " she squealed happily. "The Easter Bunny came! " For a moment, I wasn't sure what our earlier conversation had meant. Did I imagine she'd asked me for the chocolate carrots, knowing the Easter Bunny was me? Did I misinterpret her intent? Maybe she simply thought I'd tell the Easter Bunny somehow?

But then, a little while later: "Mama, we can't find the last few eggs." (The Easter Bunny had left instructions that included the exact number of eggs to find, because I didn't want to find melted chocolate under a couch cushion sometime in June.)

"Oh?" I asked, unsure of what she wanted from me. "So... keep looking, I guess?"

"Mama," she whispered intently. "We need a hint."

"Ohhhh," I replied. "Look higher up? Check the walls."

"Thanks!" she chirped, bouncing away. Moments later, as she collected chocolate eggs from the top of a picture frame, she called out again. "Got 'em! Thanks!"

I still don't know what any of this means, but a child who pretends to believe is all the fun with much less pressure— so, if anything, I'm in the golden age of holiday parenting.

The Tooth Fairy is another story entirely. What may be a charming ritual in other households is decidedly darker in ours, and that's all my fault. This is because the responsibilities of the Tooth Fairy are sporadic and somewhat stressful, and I find the whole thing creepy and gross. I hate loose teeth, I hate sneaking teeth out from under pillows, and I never carry cash. Teeth fall out whenever they happen to fall out, whether I've got the right change in my wallet or not. Sometimes I leave a two-dollar coin, other times it's a pile of nickels and quarters or even an IOU (sorry, kids). Everything about the Tooth Fairy is a pain in the ass.

I have collected teeth and flushed them down the toilet so my kids won't spot them in the trash. I have also collected them and, in the foggy-headedness of exhaustion, left them on a table in our front hallway where my kids found them the next day. "Mama, my tooth is here!" my daughter cried out one morning.

"Oh, no," I replied in a half-conscious daze. "That's a tooth from my childhood. Grandma kept it for thirty years and then got it out to show me when I told her you lost a tooth. Isn't that gross?"

I changed the subject, asking what she wanted for breakfast and hoping there were no follow-up questions or future interrogations of Grandma, who would either fold or tell a more elaborate lie to cover up my ineptitude. Neither outcome was ideal. Again: the Tooth Fairy is the worst.

Or maybe I'm the worst.

When my children's suspicions about the validity of the Tooth Fairy first arose, they decided to leave her a note. Like most people, they wanted to know what her deal was with collecting baby teeth.

Dear Tooth Fairy: What do you do with the teeth? the note read in messy, poorly spelled children's printing. They left the note beside my daughter's bed, where we'd gently placed a baggie holding one of her incisors. Both kids went to bed with great anticipation of the response to come. For reasons I can't fully explain or defend, the Tooth Fairy's return message was as follows:

I eat them. 

Did this answer freak out my kids? A little. When the next tooth was lost, they left another note.

Dear Tooth Fairy: What do the teeth taste like? (A strange question, given that the teeth had lived inside the letterwriter's mouth for over six years.)

Dear child: the small teeth are salty, and the molars are very sweet. Yum!

In the morning, my daughter was satisfied by the discovery of two dollars under her pillow but disgusted by the information on the note. "Ugh, I can't believe she eats our teeth," she said, her nose scrunched up in mild horror. 

Her brother joined in, perplexed. "Why would she do 

"You bite your fingernails," I pointed out. "I've seen you eat them."

"I don't eat other people's fingernails," he retorted. Fair enough.

If Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are magical elements of childhood, the Tooth Fairy is their obnoxious cousin who keeps showing up uninvited. I'm ready for her to fly off and never return, but she isn't taking the hint. And for some reason, my kids still buy it—either that or they want the money and will pretend to believe in a magic tooth collector forever to get it. That's the problem with smart kids who have big imaginations—they may be legitimately invested in the idea of a fairy who eats their teeth, or they're quietly extorting me. Who's to tell? I may never know.

I enable my children's belief in our magical visitors because I'm not entirely ready for those chapters to close. One day my kids will casually hand me their Christmas lists instead of shyly whispering things to a man with a beard who's dressed head to toe in red. There will be no more annual photos with Santa, and I won't have to wait until they're asleep to put presents under the tree or gnaw on carrots they've left out for the reindeer. When this happens, I'll feel relief as well as genuine loss. There's a reason I still sneak into their rooms so carefully. I'm fine with them figuring out the truth, but I don't want it to happen because I tripped over a plastic dinosaur and awkwardly ruined the magic. Let it be gentle, gradual.

At times though, I want to tell them what goes on behind the scenes so they don't become the weird kid in Grade 7 who still believes in Santa. Is it my job to make sure the truth does come out? I've concluded that some kids stop believing in incremental steps. First, they realize their parents are Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy. They live with that knowledge but pretend not to know. They continue to enjoy the myth, refuse to admit anything out loud, and maybe even appreciate that their parents keep up the charade for their enjoyment. They cling to these last pieces of magic, playing along for their parents' sake as well as their own. And slowly, quietly, they let us know they're in on the secret—maybe with a wink and a nudge, or maybe in actual words—and then, with any luck, they continue to play along.

My daughter finally showed her cards one evening after dinner. Her brother had just lost a tooth and I'd quietly made a comment to my husband that the Tooth Fairy had better find a toonie by the time our son woke up in the morning. Our daughter raised an eyebrow and sidled up beside me, looking around to make sure her brother couldn't overhear. "I have some toonies in my piggy bank," she whispered conspiratorially. "You can borrow one. You know, to be the Tooth Fairy later."

I nodded, surprised and relieved by her assistance. "I'll pay you back," I replied in a hush. She smiled and quickly ran up to her room, sliding a coin into my pocket when she returned. Crisis averted.

In the morning, she cheered in delight as her brother announced the Tooth Fairy had come. "Yay!" she cried out with a big smile, seeming genuinely pleased. My son ran out of the room, treasure in hand, and she glanced at me knowingly.

It's sad, the slow goodbye to childhood magic, but it's necessary. We can appreciate the years spent with Santa and the Easter Bunny, both as kids and again as adults, and then mourn the end of an era that gave our lives a little sparkle.

What a gift it is to relive these traditions through your children's eyes, to be a part of the magic again.

I meant what I said to my son about choosing to believe in holiday magic—we might know the truth, but that doesn't mean we have to stop believing. We can choose to surprise one another with a perfect stocking, or a favourite treat left at the foot of the bed. We can choose to believe in something that brings us joy, however complicated or illogical, and help keep it alive for those around us as an act of love. It's all love, in the end, and that's why I'll keep the magic alive for as long as my kids will let me.

Excerpted from Send Me Into the Woods Alone: Essays on Motherhood, by Erin Pepler. With permission from Invisible Publishing

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Learn more about Send Me Into the Woods Alone: 

Dispatches from modern motherhood by a reluctant suburbanite.

Send Me Into The Woods Alone is an honest, heartfelt, and often hilarious collection of essays on the joys, struggles, and complexities of motherhood.

These essays touch on the major milestones of raising children, from giving birth (and having approximately a million hands in your vagina) and taking your beautiful newborn home (and feeling like you’ve stolen your baby from the hospital), to lying to kids about the Tooth Fairy and mastering the subtle art of beating children at board games. Plus the pitfalls of online culture and the #winemom phenomenon, and the unattainable expectations placed on mothers today.

Written from the perspective of an always tired, often anxious, and reluctant suburbanite who is doing her damn best, these essays articulate one woman’s experience in order to help mothers of all kinds process the wildly variable, deeply different ways in which being a mom changes our lives.