Sunday
9/30/04
Ho ho... whaaa?
One of the many joys of being an at home dad is that the sheer variety of activities in which you can participate with your kids is pretty impressive. Gone are the days of gray suit\fedora dad who gets home just in time to give the tots a pat on the head before bedtime; nowadays dads like us are actually afforded the freedom to play games and such with the kids after checking homework and whipping up a little dinner… all after getting back from karate\soccer\band practice. Each day is full indeed.
That said, as I look back at a random sampling of posts involving my own two fine strapping lads I realize with dismay that most of them begin with the three of us on a trip to the store. Not knowing any better, one would think that our days are consumed with, well, consuming. Praying at the altar of unfettered free market capitalism, if you will. Well, I don’t suppose it can be helped, but that’s exactly where the focus of this post begins as well: at yet another tip to that Mecca of retail goodness known as Target.
So… there were the three of us wandering the freshly polished aisles of our local Target, each with visions of limitless materialism dancing in our heads when, without warning, I turned the corner and was met with a certain jolly sort of countenance that seemed eerily familiar. White beard. Rosy cheeks. Red suit that did little to hide a clinically obese figure that featured a belly that has, on more than one occasion, been noted to shake like jelly. Yes, there was no way around it, staring back at me was an illuminated, four foot tall Santa lawn ornament.
I shook my head as if to clear it as one does after a short doze. The fog was lifting.
"Santa." I said aloud and to no one in particular. I looked at my watch. Yes, it was, as I suspected, still September 29.
"September." I said aloud, again to no one in particular. After blinking a few times I realized that Santa was not alone. The shelf he occupied was filled with reindeer, sleighs, wreathes, colored lights, snowmen and other Santas, all pressed together in a sort of Christmas ragout that stretched away into the distance as far as the eye could see. My final reaction belied my nearly flawless mastery of the English language: "Wow."
After slowly backing away from the menagerie of holiday magic rather as one would back away from a mountain lion or rabid squirrel or some such thing, I grabbed each of the lads by the arm and led them in the opposite direction. My younger lad, who rarely misses a trick piped up with "Hey, was that Santa?"
Although giving the proper parental response often conflicts with my innate urge to lie to children, I once again managed to do the right thing.
"Yep, that was a Santa decoration."
"So it’s Christmas time. You didn’t tell us it’s Christmas time."
"No, it’s not Christmas time. Not for a very long time yet."
"But why…" I had no choice but to cut the boy short; had the exchange gone any further I would have been unable to control my urge to rant about the crass exploitation of all holidays, important and otherwise, and about our culture of obsessive compulsive consumption and addiction to instant gratification… and certainly that would have been a perfectly good rant wasted on a second grader. And besides, having no Rolaids with me I didn’t want to risk a bout of heartburn.
"Hey look!" I said as I cut him off. "There’re some turkeys and pilgrim stuff down there." Heck, Thanksgiving is a mere eight weeks away. That almost seems appropriate. Sure. A moment later the fog of desire was beginning descend again and I couldn’t remember what I had just been so upset about.
I unconsciously pulled out my wallet and the three of us made our way back down the aisle, lured by the electronic gobbling of adorable plush turkeys wearing pilgrim hats.
|
Ho ho... whaaa?
One of the many joys of being an at home dad is that the sheer variety of activities in which you can participate with your kids is pretty impressive. Gone are the days of gray suit\fedora dad who gets home just in time to give the tots a pat on the head before bedtime; nowadays dads like us are actually afforded the freedom to play games and such with the kids after checking homework and whipping up a little dinner… all after getting back from karate\soccer\band practice. Each day is full indeed.
That said, as I look back at a random sampling of posts involving my own two fine strapping lads I realize with dismay that most of them begin with the three of us on a trip to the store. Not knowing any better, one would think that our days are consumed with, well, consuming. Praying at the altar of unfettered free market capitalism, if you will. Well, I don’t suppose it can be helped, but that’s exactly where the focus of this post begins as well: at yet another tip to that Mecca of retail goodness known as Target.
So… there were the three of us wandering the freshly polished aisles of our local Target, each with visions of limitless materialism dancing in our heads when, without warning, I turned the corner and was met with a certain jolly sort of countenance that seemed eerily familiar. White beard. Rosy cheeks. Red suit that did little to hide a clinically obese figure that featured a belly that has, on more than one occasion, been noted to shake like jelly. Yes, there was no way around it, staring back at me was an illuminated, four foot tall Santa lawn ornament.
I shook my head as if to clear it as one does after a short doze. The fog was lifting.
"Santa." I said aloud and to no one in particular. I looked at my watch. Yes, it was, as I suspected, still September 29.
"September." I said aloud, again to no one in particular. After blinking a few times I realized that Santa was not alone. The shelf he occupied was filled with reindeer, sleighs, wreathes, colored lights, snowmen and other Santas, all pressed together in a sort of Christmas ragout that stretched away into the distance as far as the eye could see. My final reaction belied my nearly flawless mastery of the English language: "Wow."
After slowly backing away from the menagerie of holiday magic rather as one would back away from a mountain lion or rabid squirrel or some such thing, I grabbed each of the lads by the arm and led them in the opposite direction. My younger lad, who rarely misses a trick piped up with "Hey, was that Santa?"
Although giving the proper parental response often conflicts with my innate urge to lie to children, I once again managed to do the right thing.
"Yep, that was a Santa decoration."
"So it’s Christmas time. You didn’t tell us it’s Christmas time."
"No, it’s not Christmas time. Not for a very long time yet."
"But why…" I had no choice but to cut the boy short; had the exchange gone any further I would have been unable to control my urge to rant about the crass exploitation of all holidays, important and otherwise, and about our culture of obsessive compulsive consumption and addiction to instant gratification… and certainly that would have been a perfectly good rant wasted on a second grader. And besides, having no Rolaids with me I didn’t want to risk a bout of heartburn.
"Hey look!" I said as I cut him off. "There’re some turkeys and pilgrim stuff down there." Heck, Thanksgiving is a mere eight weeks away. That almost seems appropriate. Sure. A moment later the fog of desire was beginning descend again and I couldn’t remember what I had just been so upset about.
I unconsciously pulled out my wallet and the three of us made our way back down the aisle, lured by the electronic gobbling of adorable plush turkeys wearing pilgrim hats.
