Needless to say, he was very excited. Each package was sized up carefully as he tried to gauge whether it might contain one of the items on his wish list. He eyed package mountain every time came into the room to see if it had grown. The days were counted down until the loot would finally be his. This state of self-centered intoxication is exactly what the Mad Men (and women) of Madison Avenue were hoping to create.
The big day finally arrived. He was literally bouncing off the walls. The first few packages brought squeals of delight as he tore through the brightly colored paper. And then things started to go terribly wrong.
At first, he seemed like he was going into a coma. His eyes started to glaze over. There was drool at the corners of his mouth. He was nearly panting from hyperventilation. He barely looked at the contents of each package before asking for more.
Then came full-fledged demonic possession. He became increasingly belligerent during the interludes between his gifts as others in the room opened theirs. More! Now! A relative made the mistake of wanting to reminisce instead of opening the package in her lap. Smoke started to pour out of his ears.
Relatives tried to assure us that our son was just "over-tired." That is relative-speak for excited and obnoxious. The trouble was that the excitement came from anticipation, daily exposure to gift mountain, more than a month of advertising saturation bombing, comparing wish lists among friends, and let's not forget constant prayer to the patron saint of toys.
When the dust settled, my wife and I talked about the meltdown. The image that was all too clear in our minds was of our normally even-keeled son ripping through package after package, barely glancing at the contents, and demanding another. The religious elements of the holiday were completely lost in the amped up commercialization and consumerism. Santa Claus would have to die.
We decided to set strict limits on gift mountain for the future. We told him to limit his holiday wish list to three items. It was also critical to get him to thing about others, especially those less fortunate than him. The holiday Heart Fund was born.
The Heart Fund was money we set aside each year. Every year, our son was given the task of coming up with four organizations he wanted to give money to. He had to explain why he picked each organization and help with the envelope or online dedication. Part of the Christmas celebration included him announcing his gifts to others, courtesy of the Heart Fund.
Friends and relatives were asked to support our new and improved holiday celebration rules. There were a few puzzled looks and questions about we were going grinch. We explained our dissatisfaction with the me-me-me chorus to Jingle Bells. We set strict limits on what could be spent on gifts and requested relatives also consider donating to the Heart Fund. The light bulb in most people's head lit up when they heard him announce the recipients of the Heart Fund that first year.
The causes that he championed over the years were impressive. A relative's heart attack sparked a donation to the American Heart Association. A lost dog poster in the neighborhood generated interest in the Animal Care League. A homeless man inspired donations to Feeding America, Habitat for Humanity, and the Chicago Coalition for the Homeless.
The other change in our holiday tradition was to get up very early every Christmas morning and go down to the Dominican Priory in the area to help with their holiday dinner delivery program. Long before dawn, you start by putting together bags filled with dinner items, fruit, drinks, and sweets for each person in the household. After the assembly line was complete, you pick up a list of addresses to deliver the goodies to.
By 10 in the morning, the deliveries were complete and we stopped for breakfast at the local pancake house. It was enough to tide us over until the big holiday meal with relatives.
Killing Santa Claus and the me-centered Christmas celebration was one of the smartest moves we ever made as parents. The focus on giving to others, especially strangers in need, changed the whole feeling from a feeding frenzy to a holiday spirit that burned warmly.
Some Christians love to blubber about a "war on Christmas." They hyperventilate over whether stores greet you with Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas. There are heated battles over tawdry holiday displays in public places. The trouble is that what bothers these people is whether the orgy of consumption is labeled Christmas. It is all about packaging, not content.
The real war on Christmas is that Christ is lost in the schlock and spending. That is why we killed Santa Claus.
It reminds me of song popular in my youth by Jethro Tull ("Christmas Song"). My favorite lines still still ring true:
Once in Royal David's City stood a lowly cattle shed,
where a mother laid her baby.
You'd do well to remember the things He later said.
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