My wife worships Christmas.

Once the Thanksgiving dishes are done, it’s all Yule all the time. Nothing but Christmas music in the car, nothing but Christmas movies on the television, nothing but Christmas shopping on the weekends.

And she was like this BEFORE we had the kid. Now that he’s here, and he’s alive enough to begin to understand Santa and presents and cookies and the tree and all that, not only has Mom and Buried’s Christmas-loving resolve strengthened, but I no longer have a Scroogey cane to stand on.

Especially on Christmas Eve, when there’s work to do!

Last Christmas the kid had a sense of what was happening, in that he enjoyed tearing the brightly-colored wrapping paper off things that were handed to him. This year, he understands toys and seems to get the concept of presents, so it’s game on for Mom and Buried.

Now that my kid is in the know, my wife’s Christmas obsession is in the stratosphere. She wants nothing more than to give our son a good Christmas, which means making sure all the TV he watches is Christmas-themed, all the songs he sings – and he does sing – are Christmas songs, and that he is indoctrinated into the (fraudulent) magic of Santa Claus.

He has been told who Santa is, can identify him in a line-up, and seems genuinely excited about him delivering presents overnight. So yeah, the kid is into the whole Santa Claus thing, so long as that “thing” doesn’t involve going anywhere near an actual person dressed as Santa Claus.

Of course, to complete the illusion, most of the gifts Detective Munch will be getting have been signed “From Santa” and, most importantly, none of them are under the tree before he goes to bed on Christmas Eve.

Which means after he goes to sleep tonight, a half-in-the-bag Daddy is forced to lug everything down from various hiding places throughout the house and down the stairs so that they will magically appear under the tree by the time he wakes up.

I am okay with it. Christmas had gotten pretty stale around here, but now that there’s a grandkid and nephew around, the holidays are re-energized, and that’s nice.

Provided I don’t break my neck carrying a huge wooden train set down the stairs.

So Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and I’ll catch you once or twice before New Year’s Eve, in between benders.