"What kind of mother are you?"

I killed Santa last year.  It was an accident, of sorts.  It all started off quite innocently while driving home one December day, waiting for the traffic lights to change.  I was with my daughter (Miss Seven) who asked me the question I had been expecting for a while - "Does Santa Claus really exist?".  I paused for a second,  looked at her and asked (what I now know is a pretty stupid question to be asking a seven year old) "Do you really want to know?".  She replied in the affirmative quite cheerfully, so I told her the truth:
- "No, Santa doesn't exist".

Not seeing the look of horror creeping across my little girl's face (well, the lights were going to change to green any minute now and I was keeping my eyes on the road) I answered her next question truthfully stupidly as well.

"So, who brings all our Christmas presents then?" her voice quavering ever so slightly. 
"We do! Dad and I buy all your presents and put them under the tree - so if you want nice presents, you had better make sure that you are 'good' to us". 

I was really amazed at how easy this was - it was almost too easy.  Like the calm before the storm. Like the stillness of the eye of the cyclone just before it destroys everything in its path.

Miss Seven:   "How could you?"
Me:               "How could I what?"
Miss Seven:   "How could you destroy my childhood? I believed in Santa Claus and YOU JUST KILLED    HIM!"
Me:               "Well, you told me you wanted to know!" (in a very weak and by now deeply regretful tone)
Miss Seven:  "What kind of mother are you? What kind of mother does this to her own child? THANKS A  LOT FOR RUINING MY LIFE!" {cue theme song at the end of 'Shortland Street'}

Finally, the light changed to green. We turned right at the intersection in silence.

Me:             "I was just kidding, you know - Santa brings your presents" (back-pedalling furiously)
Miss Seven: "It's too late Mum. I always knew that he wasn't real, I just wish you didn't have to tell me the truth".

As a child growing up in New Zealand, I lived in a house with no fireplace so I never bought into the whole 'Santa comes down the chimney' myth but I did like to believe that he existed - the whole 'suspension of disbelief'' magic that comes naturally in childhood. When we moved to Samoa in the early 80s we definitely had no fireplace in the house and nobody ever told us stories about Santa coming down chimneys or through the thatching, so it was never a big issue for me.  I felt really bad that I had destroyed that magical part of Christmas for my daughter and so definitely won't be making the same mistake with my other children.  They can find out in their own sweet time!

As a Christian, I do tell them that Christmas is about the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ though so they are very clear about that. Santa is the other fun and magical side of Christmas - and I 'killed' him. 

If you have kids, what do you tell them about Christmas if you celebrate it? When is it ever the right time to tell children the truth about Santa?