It's December now.

How frightening is that?

I decided I would do that thing where I pretend like I'm a good parent and take my kids to see Santa.

My son is now of an age where he does not believe in Santa anymore and takes every opportunity to inform my daughter that Santa isn't real.

Of course, I think he's actually known that for a while now. I remember a time a few years ago, when his father asked him, "Asher! Do you know where the Christmas presents come from?" thinking the boy would answer, "Santa Claus!" and then we'd all have a Norman Rockwell Moment or something, only with less sepia.

But no. My son gave his father a scornful look and said, "From the closet. Duh."

There's Mommy's good little skeptic!

At any rate, Meredith still believes in Santa. I do not comment on such things either way. When my son harasses her about her ridiculous belief in cosmic present daddies in the sky, she comes running to me, begging for reassurance.

"Mom, Santa is real, isn't he?"

I say, "You'll have to figure that one out on your own, squirt."

And then she looks at me like I just ran over her puppy with a sleigh and I am delighted with my Awesome Parenting Skizillz.

So, Sunday, we embarked on a journey to visit Santa. We got lucky, because the line was not long.

The little curly-haired girl in line in front of us was very cute. Until it was her turn to see Santa and she took one look at him and tore screaming out of line and off down the store's aisle.

Not one to ever miss a chance at anything, Meredith went for the gold, bolting over to Santa and scrambling into his lap. She immediately began rattling off her list of Festivus Wishes, which appeared to include the entire inventory of Toys R Us and perhaps half that of Amazon.com.

Without letting Santa even ask her the age-old question, "And what do you want for Christmas, little girl?" Protocol had been breached! Santa and his elves were aghast.

Meredith was undaunted and continued chirping.

Santa started to get worried. He looked to me for help, like, "Can't you do something about this jibbering monkey thingie on my lap? GET IT OFF ME! OH, IT TALKS SO MUCH!"

I did not help the Jolly Old Elf, though, because I figured he probably had a flask of something alcoholic underneath that fancy scrolly chair, and therefore was more prepared to soothe himself after having to deal with my daughter than I ever am.

I should start carrying around a little barrel of bourbon under my chin, like a St. Bernard. That might work.

Anyhoo. My son hovered about 3 feet away from Santa's chair, eyeing Santa with distrust. When my daughter paused to take a breath before resuming her Litany of Greed, Santa asked the boy what he wanted for a present.

"Oh...a toy, I guess," said my son, shuffling his feet around.

"Is that all?"

"Or...a dirtbike!"

Sigh. No dirtbikes.

I shoved the boy over to Santa's chair so they could take a picture and we could get this sordid thing over with.

Consequently, we now have a Polaroid shot that cost me roughly 9 million dollars, with my daughter grinning like a maniac and my son standing there, looking like he always does, which is to say "vaguely unamused," while wearing his "Wisconsin: Home of the Mullet" t-shirt.

I was going to post this picture, but I realized I own nothing so pedestrian as a scanner, and therefore cannot.

Oh well.

Today, we kicked the Nondenominational Gift Giving Day season into high gear in Zombistan by putting up the Christmas Tree/Channukah Bush/Foliage With Lights On It.

My tree is a fake tree that I acquired from Big Lots for roughly 17 dollars. Why? Again, because I am a cheap bastard. Oh, and it's pre-lit. Why? Because I am also lazy.

I briefly considered just getting a stick and putting it in a bucket and calling it a day, but no, my kids deserve better. They deserve a Good Tree. And Quality Family Time.

And so we got a Good (depending on your definition of "good," I guess, because I only paid 17 dollars for it, and it shows, piebald thing that it is) Tree and spent Quality Family Time of the Arboreal Variety together.

Quality Family Time of the Arboreal Variety in my house goes like this:

"Okay, kids, time to decorate the tree!"

"YAAAAY."

"NO, not like that! Put that one there! No! How many times do I have to tell you that you can't put two silver ones right next to each other? It ruins the whole aesthetic! SAVAGES! Nevermind. I will do it myself."

Okay, maybe I was a little more lenient than that.

But not much. I do have standards to uphold, after all, and those standards do not include an improperly-decorated fake tree.

After we got the tree all put together and shiny-looking, we sat back to admire our handiwork.

Well, Asher and I did.

Meredith went around behind it and somehow managed to pull the whole thing down on top of herself.

Of course.

There was much rustling and the sound of smashing glass.

"JESUS CHRIST, MEREDITH!" my son shouted.

"AHHHHHHH!" screamed my daughter from underneath the tree, little arms and legs flailing wildly.

I quickly pulled it off of her, envisioning the need for stitches, because surely all those smashed ornaments had turned her into a mangle-face. Fortunately, she was unscathed.

I can't say the same thing for half of my silver and red glass ornaments, but what can you do? At least they were cheap.

We cobbled the tree back together, and it is markedly less shiny now, but still serviceable.

Serviceable. That's the important thing, right? RIGHT?

Sigh.