Bah

I have, let's say, a complicated relationship with Christmas these days.

I don't get into the religion of it — I never have. I am not observant, I guess that's the term, of any particular religion (or of any religion, really), and I really don't care to be. So that's out.

And I'm disillusioned by this idea that Christmas is a season that begins on or about the end of October, an increasing frenzy of buying stuff (and more stuff) that reaches a peak on the Friday after Thanksgiving — this year, several hours before that — and lasts for another month or so, more or less at that level. Even in the best of times (for us), when money wasn't a very real worry, I wanted nothing to do with that.

But you can't really escape it. You're obliged to take part in it. It's everywhere.

I love the joy on my son's face when he opens a gift (which can occasionally be glimpsed through the flurry of wrapping paper). And I know, there's no practical way to make a nine-year-old understand the concept of "excess," particularly when it comes to toys. But as he's a bit older, I'd like him to better understand that it's important to appreciate what you already have, rather than what you just received.

And each year, when my wife is indifferent to my concerns and finds new limits to the term "extravagance," I get just that bit more frustrated, and just that bit more dispirited. (More so this year, when more resources went toward a Christmas for him we could not afford.) Too much is too much is too much.

The one gift I'd want to give my family this year is a sense of security — I only wish that I could.