S. Claus

Contrary to popular belief, I don't actually enjoy this particular time of year. Not anymore. The smell of pine and snow in the air, the bitter cold that chills me to the bone, the constant cheerfulness that seems to follow everyone around - it sickens me these days. I often wonder why I have never quit my job; why I subject myself to this same routine December after December.

I suppose at first that it was fun. The thrill I felt when handing a neatly wrapped package to a wide-eyed child was a sort of pleasurable moment in the beginning. Their tiny hands would furiously claw at the concealed treasure, smiling wide from ear to ear. No matter what was hiding beneath the wrappings, the gifts received would always be greeted with a squeal of glee and approval by their new owners.

I'm not sure when that changed. I could not tell you the point at which a simple wooden train, a good book or a carefully crafted doll ceased to be sufficient enough to quench the holiday hunger for material things. Every year, more and more squeals of glee are replaced by cries of despair and disappointment. The heartbreaking wails that ring in my ears on every Christmas morn over toys not wanted or toys not received; sometimes it is more than I can bear.

Oh, how I wish that all of them were gone; those wrenching cries of woe. I wish that time could revert to a simpler era when children were happy with however little or much they received under their tree; a time when gratitude was given for merely the thought instead of being earned by providing the perfect gift. Alas, I fear it will never change -

- but at least I still get cookies.