My sons just wrote their letters to Santa.
My seven year old asked for an "elf friend" (Him: I bet they're all sweaty from working hard and they could come here and not work. Me: Where would they sleep? Him: In my sleeping bag.).
My five-and-a-half year old asked for "a talking dog that wears a hat." (Dad: Who's going to pick up the poop? Him: It won't poop.)
Apparently I'll spend our breakfast time together trying to explain to them that Santa doesn't give "live" gifts. If that doesn't work, well, then . . . I'm going to plot them in front of Nick so they'll beg me for something I can drive somewhere and buy. That's my plan. Yeah, that's it--that's my plan.
I miss the good old television-induced materialism that marked my youth.
Merlin, anyone?
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