No Good Deed

Christmas is the season of giving. Of charity. Of helping those in need. With that beautiful sentiment in my heart, I decided to help one of Salvation Army's "Angels." The kids ask for a gift, the Salvation Army prints the kid's name and wish on a card, we fulfill the wish, and the Salvation Army delivers it to the family. Instant Karma. Instant happy child. Christmas is saved.
I thought it would be positive to include my children in this anonymous act of charity. I thought they could go through a store with no hope of anything for themselves and be excited for a little girl who only wants a tea set for Christmas. I thought this would be a glimpse for them into their life of privilege and plenty.
E is in the car asking me questions about our Angel. What's her name? How old is she--things I could answer. Where does she live? Why doesn't she have any money? How did she get on the Salvation Army's list--things I couldn't answer.
Then, a rare silence in the car. We 're driving to Target. I was feeling good about myself. I was thinking that I'd reached the heart of my precious boy. That modeling charity was going to change his life in some profound way. Then, a crisis:
"Why won't she have Christmas just because her parents are poor? Won't Santa bring her gifts?"
Oh, crap. I should have seen this coming. From like ten miles off. I have no answer. My heart is pounding. I have visions of a mob of angry school moms coming to get me because my kid denied Santa to their kids. I am groping for answers. I can't think. Traffic. Where is a red light when you need one? Vague. I have to be vague. Belief. Magic. Wonder. I can do this.
"Well, when you are down on your luck, and you have no money and everything in your life is just about survival, it's hard to believe in magical things. And Santa, of course, is a magical person. If you don't or can't believe in magic, then the magic doesn't happen to you."
Ah. That was good. I have a knack for improv. I'm feeling safe now. Chew on that, you precocious six year old.
Silence. Wheels are turning.
Then:
"Shouldn't the magic happen when you need it the most?"
Is my kid Tiny Tim Cratchitt or what? Has he been watching sappy Hallmark movies on TV? Do we even get the Lifetime Network? Where is this going?
Finally:
"Santa's crap, right? It's all parents."
That's it. My days in the PTA are over. My kid and I are going to be run out of school by moms with pitchforks and torches. Inspector Poirot wouldn't have come to this conclusion this fast. Where the hell is Target?
"I didn't get a guide book that told me to pretend to be Santa."
"MOOOOM," annoyed, slightly amused.
"Honey. Like all magical things in the world, you have to believe. If you believe in Santa, then he, and everything about him is real. That's why people love Christmas so much. Everything is possible."
Target. Thank God. "Everybody out. What kind of tea set are we buying?"
"Probably something dumb with princesses on it."

Holy crap. I killed Santa.