To recap: Ours was a Christmas of snitty fits and small glories

Dear Santa,

Please let me explain …

We’re still processing exactly what happened, the emotional flare-ups, the snitty fits, the fights over petty stuff that happened in the third grade. Needless to say, things got out of hand very quickly this Christmas. And we’d like to blame/credit you for all of that.

As you know, there’s a new puppy in the house, which lent the holiday season a special aura (and the faint scent of ammonia). Unlike children, puppies are trainable and appreciative and won’t bite your hand off when you reach out to tousle their heads.

Give a new puppy an old sock, and she’ll think she won the lottery. Give a kid a $300 device, and he won’t even finish opening it before he moves on to the next overpriced gizmo.

You get my drift …

Still, the kids were great. Thanks for luring them home with your traditional shtick. Americans act like we invented Christmas, when really all we did was rescue it from the dour Germans and turn it into the world’s best marketing campaign. “A December to remember,” and all that. It certainly was that. I cradled my coffee like a prayer book and tried to remember every little thing.

The kids were all home, all four or five of them — honestly, I’ve lost count. The boyfriends were off with their own immediate families, which was a disappointment. Like pets, BF’s are often far more appreciative and polite than your own children.

We gathered, as we always do, on Christmas morning, near the big wine stain in the den.

Over the course of the last couple of weeks, glitter had fallen from all the Christmas cards and now coated their pajamas like a first frost. Three of the kids sat on the hardwood floor, buffing them with their flannel rumps. The dogs sat on the couch, shedding hair in clumps despite the winter chill. Starting to think the new “puppy” might actually be a breed of Scottish lamb.

Before we even got started, one of the children filed a complaint.

“She’s sooooo bossy,” my daughter explained of her lovely and patient older sister, who had brought her to tears with some snarky but well-intended aside. To the Irish, words are like fish hooks — you dangle them, then you yank.

Eventually, we persuaded my younger daughter to re-join the group — with the promise of gift cards and shoes. Her eyes lit up, and the festivities began.

Santa, just wanted to say that you really knocked it out of the park this year. Maybe it was that Cubs cap you wore while making your rounds, or that $500 pair of Air Jordan Retros that keeps you so nimble.

The kids got all they asked for — and more. Way more. To the point where we can’t really afford to repay you. What I’m trying to say, Santa, is that you’ve driven us right into bankruptcy.

My goal is to stay solvent through the Super Bowl, then throw myself at the mercy of the courts. I will probably spend the next nine years as the inmate librarian in some sort of debtor’s prison. Hopefully, my cell will have a hotplate and a small TV.

Just the same, we appreciate every little thing you’ve done for us. The board games, and sweaters … the purses, the ponies, the Fabergé eggs. The sedans, the Krugerrands, the earbuds, the jellies, the jams.

In fact, the kids are unwrapping their last Macy’s boxes as I write this, three days later. The dogs are pooping red ribbon and mistletoe, the dry furnace air has parched my esophagus. Most troubling, we’re getting uncomfortably close to the last of the Trader Joe’s wine.

Soon, the post-holiday bills will pour in. I will gladly attempt to pay them, vow to take it a easier next year, then probably bust the budget once again.

What do I have to show for it? Tinsel, cookies, a chipped tooth and a fridge full of half-finished roasts. A headache that might be an aneurysm.

But a festive Christmas brings back the children, doesn’t it? From as far as Cincinnati, which is tough sledding this time of year. And from Santa Monica, which can be tricky too.

They are the ornaments on my tree, these kids. I am not much for solemn reflection, and discourage seriousness in almost any form. But Christmas with your children still feels like an elegy in a country church.

So thanks, Santa. For everything. But especially for them.

[email protected]

Twitter: @erskinetimes

ALSO

A holiday to resonant, Tchaikovsky set it to music