Let me paint you a little picture:
It is Christmas Eve and it is time for bed. You need to make sure you get in bed early and fall asleep in plenty of time so Santa doesn't skip over your house. Why, who is this "Santa" person you speak of, Mother? Well, he is a giant, overweight man, dressed in all red velour that is going to come down your chimney into tonight while you are sleeping and leave you gifts under your Christmas Tree.
So, basically what you are telling, Mom, is that this "Santa" character will be breaking and entering into my house and you, dad and the rest of the world apparently, are ok with all of this??
Christmas Eve nights were always pretty restless ones for me as a child. I remember very clearly, the Eve where the unthinkable happened. I woke up and had to go to the bathroom. Here is the bargaining that went on in my head:
1. Fall back asleep and hold it until morning. (Unlikely to happen, the more you think about not peeing, the more you actually have to pee.)
2. Call for mom and dad. (But then Santa might hear me!)
3. Pee the bed. (Looking like my best choice at this point.)
Well, I didn't pee the bed. I risked it all and fearfully walking back and forth from the bathroom to my room, convinced I was going to come face to face with Kris Kringle himself.
Don't get me wrong, I was always excited in the morning. The gifts were always worth the night of sheer terror. Still, I would have preferred if the story went something like this:
"...and all year long, Santa Claus makes toys with the elves in his workshop in the North Pole until finally on Christmas Eve, he has his elves arrange that all the gifts for the good little boys and girls of the world be delivered via FedEx and dropped of on your doorstep in a completely non-scary and non threatening way."
That is my kind of Christmas miracle.
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