I’m a bad existentialist parent.

DYLAN and DADDY are on the way home from a craft fair.

DYLAN: I don’t believe Santa is real.

DADDY: Okay. I imagine he doesn’t believe in you either.

DYLAN: Why?

DADDY: Well, if he’s not real, how’s he supposed to believe in you?

DYLAN: Well, Santa’s supposed to be a good guy, right?

DADDY: Yeah. I think so.

DYLAN: But Santa comes into everyone’s house without asking. Like a robber.

DADDY: That’s… a good point. But wait, didn’t you write a letter to Santa asking him to bring you things?

DYLAN: I don’t think so. I don’t know how to read.

DADDY: But you saw him at the mall and sat on his lap, didn’t you? (Suddenly panics that he might be about to imply that sitting on a man’s lap grants implicit consent for him to visit you in the night)

DYLAN: No.

DADDY: I have pictures.

DYLAN: Oh. But I don’t think that was the real Santa. I think that was a man in a costume.

DADDY: Yeah. I think Santa has helpers for stuff like that.

DYLAN: Okay. Then I guess maybe Santa is real, if he has helpers.

 

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