It was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, nothing was stirring, not even a mouse. Well, if you listen a little more closely, and with a tincture of dread, you may have heard the soft distant creaking of a weak wooden bed. But let’s ignore this, and just turn out the light, after all, Santa is coming, it’s Christmas night!
So on Dasher, on Rudolph, on Donner, on Blitzen! Mommy likes Zoloft, and Prozac, and Paxil prescriptions!
Onward Santa! Slide down that bright red chimney, that narrow canal, that symbol of birth. Give children presents and, finally, they can evaluate their worth. Did Tommy get more than Bobby? What about Jane? What did little Timmy get, beside a year’s worth of shame?
But who is this Santa? And is it really alright, that he sneaks into our house on each Christmas night? He certainly looks like daddy, and he sounds like him too. And we always see Santa wearing our own father’s shoes …
But it can’t be, I just can’t believe, it can’t be such. I cannot believe parents would violate their children’s trust. And why would daddy dress up like that, with a goal to deceive? If Christmas is a lie, what can we believe?
It does seem odd, first they surround us with toys, then off to the bedroom, to make that strange creaking noise. I say, something is terribly amiss. Just last night, I saw mommy with Santa, she gave him a sweet, soft, sugary kiss.
It was something more than a familial embrace. But I don’t care, I certainly don’t feel, at all, displaced. Still, Santa has no right to disturb the family dynamic. In fact, the more I consider it, the least I can stand it!
Now I know the true meaning of Christmas and this sad season of yule. These toys have done nothing, save make me the fool.