‘Tis the Season

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    The countdown begins. Thanksgiving is behind us. We’ve had not quite a week to digest the enormous amounts of food from last Thursday, and December is upon us. The Christmas Season is here. It’s not like it snuck up on us. The internet, stores and television have been pounding at our doors since early October. The ads, sales and Town Criers all screaming “Christmas is coming! Buy This!” have assailed us for over two months. Lots of stores simply put out everything at the same time: Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas merchandise displayed liberally throughout the store. As one holiday ends, they just add more Christmas stuff. The Buying Season is, indeed, upon us.

    Now, I’m not anti-capitalism. I expect retailers to take advantage of the time of year when most of their sales take place. Like most people, I enjoy giving gifts. It’s just that it seems to fly by so fast, like a monetary drive-by that leaves me feeling like a hollow chalk outline on the sidewalk, bled out of any cash I might have otherwise had. No hard feelings. Many a Transformer and bicycle ago, I paid the price of watching four kids enjoy turning my hard-earned dollars into a mountain of ripped up wrapping paper. I still think back on those days with my own joy. It was worth every penny. It reminds me that I’m not the only one who’s paid that price.

    My Mom and Dad raised four kids, of which I’m the “baby”. Mom still introduces me that way, even after my fifty eighth birthday. I cannot recall all of my Christmas mornings, growing up, but all of them have a pretty common theme. We got good toys. We were allowed to go berserk playing with them on Christmas morning. Mom and Dad paid for them and gave all the credit to Santa. I think of the years that Old Saint Nick got away with that, and I’m amazed that I did the same with my own kids. Did that jolly old elf ever take a Payday Loan out for those little tykes? No! Did he work overtime, right beside those elves (forced labor? It’s possible) ? No! I think not. Did I ever see the man in the Red Suit standing in line at a crowded, bustling store, two days before Christmas, just so he could get a chance at getting a kid the latest Cabbage Patch Doll, or GI Joe? Never! Not once. They might call him Father Christmas, but I think he might be kind of the “divorced dad who lives out of state and only shows up at Christmas with gifts” kinda dad. The least he could do is put those complicated toys together before Christmas morning. Earn those cookies and milk, Old Man.

    Okay, so Santa and I may have our problems. It’s not easy to be a parent at Christmas. There can be lean years when it’s hard to satisfy the desires of those little people who hold our hearts in their hands. There will be times when second-hand bikes and used video game consoles will just have to do. There are kids in India who don’t even get Christmas presents. Mostly because they’re mainly Hindu and Muslim, and don’t exactly follow the same Baby Jesus like we Christians, but my point is: we have to give what we can and be grateful for it. Most kids understand when Santa has an off year. They’ll still love you, just so long as they know you’re doing your best. Santa, I mean. Those gifts are just icing on the Christmas Cookie.

To my Mom and Dad: thank you for making my Christmas’s so special. Thanks for all those years that I went to bed all a-tingle with anticipation and awoke to find tokens of your love under the tree. Thanks for sacrificing your time, money and sanity just so you could step on my little green army men in the dark, throughout the rest of the year. I love you, not because of the toys, but because you went out of your way, your wallet and your mind, to make me and my siblings happy and fulfilled. To my own four children, I say thank you also. Waking up early, watching the joyous faces as you unwrap and play with the feeble tokens of your parent’s love and stepping on every sharp-edged booby-trap throughout the year was worth it. It was some of the best moments of my life.

And Santa, if you’re reading this, know that I still have a bone or two to pick with you. There’s that “Naughty List” fiasco of 1972, the two left-handed boxing gloves incident in 1997, and those looks I get when I talk about you to my coworkers nowadays. We need to talk. Or maybe I’ll just put it in my letter this year.

Never stop believing, y’all.