I have dutifully read my kids’ letters to Santa, at least those of the middle two. The oldest no longer writes letters to Santa and the youngest still can’t spell. I confess that I didn’t know what a lot of the items on their lists were. After 12 years of fatherhood, I don’t know what a Bakugan is, where to adopt a Zhu Zhu Pet or what a “model of Chowder” might be.

I’m sure they wouldn’t understand my list, either, were I to write one. They may understand the words, but not the concept of wanting nothing more than for them to grow and flourish through the next year; to be free of illness, fear or sadness.

I don’t need much else, really. Sure, I’d like an iPhone or some new CDs, but those will come over time. They’re tangible and can be budgeted for. Our kids’ childhoods are fleeting, an unknown quantity.

I recognize some of the items on the lists. I know what a laptop is and that 8-year-old Joshua is not getting one. I also know what root beer is, though it’s unclear why it is on his list. I’m pretty sure he’ll be getting a six-pack, though, if only so I can drink half of them.

Every mother’s child knows what this year brings: Gifts, cheer, gifts, and family and friends who bring gifts. This season may be the most stressful part of this year, when we parents are expected once again to become experts in shopping, decorating, cooking and, maybe most importantly, the delicate balancing act of managing expectations … (read more)