My wife was vacuuming the living room the other day and she complained to me that the vacuum cleaner was not doing a good job, and we needed a new one.
“Well, keep your fingers crossed,” I told her. “Christmas is coming.”
I can’t repeat what she said to me, but it won’t get her on Santa’s “nice” list, I can tell you that.
I’m normally a pretty good gift-giver, as much as I hate shopping. If it were up to me, I’d take her to Wal-Mart, hand her a $100 bill and say, “I’ll be back in an hour. Merry Christmas.” But I know I can’t get away with that.
Christmas has lost a good bit of its magic since the kids have gotten older. I used to be dragged out of bed by two little urchins in pajamas so we could go downstairs at 5 a.m. and see what Santa had left.
Now on Christmas morning, we have to go and drag two grumpy, mute teen-agers out of bed so they can come look at the things they already knew they were getting, mumble something that sounds like “thank you” in Wookie language, and then they crawl back upstairs and resume hibernation.
I remember the excitement of Christmas when I was a kid, but I guess it’s easier to get excited when you don’t have to go to malls and fight traffic and get flipped off in the parking lot by maniacal women. Kind of saps the old Christmas spirit.
Like most kids, I loved Christmas. I always wanted to leave Santa milk and cookies, like normal kids. But my parents insisted that, no, Santa would prefer some fruitcake and Pepsi-Cola. That is ridiculous, I thought. Who likes that? The only person I knew who liked either fruitcake or Pepsi-Cola was my father and he – waiiiiiiiiiiiiitttt a stinking minute!
So I went to my 4th-grade teacher, Miss Thelma Davis, who was very wise and old and vibrated when she talked, like Katherine Hepburn. She would know the answer, so I asked her: Is there a Santa Claus?
She studied me thoughtfully, and she said, “Well, Santa Claus is really the spirit of Christmas. He’s not an actual person.” A-ha! The truth was out. My parents had been lying to me for years!
Oh, I had my suspicions for a while. I once asked my mother how Santa got in our house, since we didn’t have a chimney. She said, “He comes in the door.” But we lock the door. “He has a magic key.” But wouldn’t the dog go crazy barking at him? “Shut up, son.”
After learning the truth, I had a dilemma. Do I confront my parents with my knowledge of their treachery? Or do I keep my mouth shut, since revealing that I knew what the deal was might jeopardize my future volume of presents? Sadly, keeping my mouth shut has never been my strong suit, and I told my mom that I knew what was going on.
When my kids were small and I became Santa, I spent a few years putting together things such as tricycles and the Barbie Doll House and the @#$%@$%&@ Hot Wheels Garage. The space shuttle doesn’t have as many moving parts as Hot Wheels Garage. That REALLY sapped me of my Christmas spirit. I made The Grinch look like Andy Williams by the time I finished putting those things together and crawled off to bed for a solid three hours of sleep.
But for all my grumbling at the time, I miss those days. Now I ask the kids for a Christmas list, and they just write “Cash” on a piece of paper and give it back to me. I say, is that all? And they take it back and write, “Lots of it.”
At least I can go to sleep earlier now. Merry Christmas.
1 comment:
No, Santa! Say it ain't so! I talked to a mom yesterday who said once her kids found out, she told them they were now part of a secret club, and they had to protect that secret from other kids. I thought that was a clever way of keeping them from ruining Christmas for other kids, like Alice in my 4th grade class did to me!
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