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Santa Needs a Second Job

If you were wondering what age exactly one falls prey to consumerism that would be right on the cusp of five. This year Anders is on the holiday schedule of every mall department store, meaning if he had it his way we’d have put the Christmas tree up a week before Halloween.

Thank God for DVR because watching commercials with him is exhausting. Every  break in Nickelodeon brings “Mom, I wanna get that! Will Santa bring that? Oh! I want that one too, mom. Can I have that one? Oooh, I really need that!” He cannot move on until you respond in some way to each statement.

When this first began I would say things like “You know, Santa can’t bring everything. If you’re good he’ll bring you some of these toys, but not all of them.” It didn’t take me long to realize that my son has a lucrative career in front of him as a defense attorney and rather than listening to a fifteen minute argument on the very distinct differences between Rocky the Talking Dump Truck and Stinky the Talking Garbage Truck and why he needs both to become a well-adjusted adult and anything less is nothing short of parental negligence I found it was much easier to launch myself off the couch like a ninja, back handspring to the remote, and press the  forward button with lightning  fast speed at every commercial break.

As if television ads weren’t enough, someone put a Target and Walmart toy catalog in that kid’s hands and he is adamant in his belief that these are a much more exciting read at bed time than Dr. Seuss. He’s looked through them with every adult who will sit and listen (Bonus points if he suspects you possess a major credit card.) and both catalogs are worn to tatters at this point.

So, while I can’t remember my car keys these days, I do know that Iron Man 2 Radio Controlled Walking Iron Man comes with targets, 4 missile accessories, and requires 2 AA batteries (not included). I must admit though, something about watching him drift off to sleep, his little fingers curled snugly around that wrinkled toy catalog is infectious. I sense that “Bah Humbug!” feeling I’ve gotten in years past melting (at roughly the same rate as my check card). Who knows, my heart may just grow three sizes by Christmas.

How do you deal with your child’s ambitious expectations for Santa?

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