Christmas is five days away. That means we have only 120 hours in which to convince Smoochie that the Christmas tree is a good thing, that the Christmas lights outside are a good thing, that the ornaments on the tree are a good thing, that gingerbread men are also good things. For some reason, he is filled with suspicion about it all.
"I don't think that bird really goes in the tree."
"That's not a real mushroom."
"Santa is supposed to be fat."
"Santa doesn't ride on an airplane, he sails big big deers."
"I DON'T LIKE ANGELS."
He has also confused Santa with the Big Bad Wolf, who similarly comes down the chimney. We have to reassure him periodically that Santa will not huff and puff and blow our house down. Although . . . wouldn't that make a more emotionally intense Christmas--sort of a cross between Passover and a Chinook? If your house is left standing on Christmas Day you get presents and turkey and joy. If not, you get something that will perhaps make you appreciate Christmas the next time around and not kvetch so much about whether the camel on the mantlepiece is supposed to be brown and not purple.
What will he be like when he's three???
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