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Merry Christmas from the Ok Oh Goy

Expectation is the hobgoblin of so, so much, not least of which is a good night's sleep. So last night, first as Wifey and I constructed, wrapped and ogled the boy's presents under the tree and later, as the boy himself tossed and turned, feverishly mumbling the ABCs and dialoging incoherently with Goatie the kid, Special the turtle and Horton the elephant, that little imp of anxiety haunted my eyelids. Would Sonny be well enough to wake up bright eyed and exclaim in giggles and pattering feet upon the bounty Santa had deposited through our front window? Should I get up to search out some distant twenty four hour three hundred and sixty five day drug store to get the children's Tylenol to reduce his temperature? Am I one of those selfish parents that completely ignores the signs of a child's oncoming illness in favour of eggnog? A few days ago the conundrum of whether to introduce the Santa concept was enough consternation itself until a man on the radio supplied some sound reasoning: by selling, or letting be sold, Santa Claus to the impressionable, the child is given the opportunity to believe in a magical being that does magical things that seem to be tangible and readily apparent, only to figure out through the process of maturation of reasoning and deduction (and completely on his or her own two thinking feet) that the supernatural fat man does not, in fact exist at all. This provides a moment of early life reflection into the harmlessness of myth so long as it is placed in context. The idea being that the child, once inoculated of the Santa myth, would turn around and notice that everyone seems to gaily buy into such an obvious fantasy for the sake of a little cheer is not such a bad thing. Myth thus takes its rightful place in the psyche. The suspension of disbelief takes on initial meaning. When we heard this, Wifey and I turned on the Claus banter to eleven. What a learning moment! Better yet, and unexpectedly, the excitement of Christmas crept back into our little apartment. Somewhere along the way the distaste of rampant commercialism tag-teemed cynically with the distaste of old timey religion to piledrive some of the joy out of the season. But everything seems to have its place despite my better notions, and the thought that Kringle could be, for a couple years at least, not only a harmless but beneficial part of our household has made me surprisingly content.