The true meaning of the holidays

Now that the season of excessive eating, stress-drinking, and trampling our friends and neighbors to get our hands on cheap electronics is over, I find myself wondering what the holidays really mean to people. We’re so caught up in getting things, and getting a “good value,” that our real values are being crushed in the process. Fortunately, my daughter Hazel is here to remind me of what’s truly important — in her own roundabout way.

This past December my wife and I took 22 month-old Hazel on a pilgrimage into the epicenter of Christmas commercialization — to see Santa at Macy’s on 34th Street. Hazel had no idea who this weird old guy was, mind you, but it seemed like a good excuse for a family outing.

After the trek into Manhattan and a long wait to get into “Santaland,” we were finally ushered into a room for our photo-op with Mr. Claus. Santa was jolly and all, but Hazel wasn’t too sure about him. She did, however, find the camera-and toy-wielding elves wildly entertaining, so the session went well enough. Then we were on our way — which in Santaland means, “on our way to the cash registers,” where we were met with a lengthy menu of picture-packages with different size prints, matting options, digital photos on CD, and so on. Not that I’m complaining — there was no obligation to buy anything, and the store has to make money on the deal somewhere. Santa’s appearance fee must be astronomical.

After escaping from Santaland we still had eight floors of department store between us and the street, and my wife wanted to look around. Funny thing: after being rushed out of the house early to beat the crowds, riding the subway from Brooklyn to midtown, standing in line for an hour, and then posing with some stranger in a red suit while 22 year olds with striped tights snapped flash-bulbs in her eyes, Hazel was just a little bit restless. In the open expanse of Women’s Casuals, she took off. For a skinny, little 22 month old, she’s surprisingly fast. Not to mention willful — I tried picking her up to prevent any sales-floor collisions, but she squirmed like an eel and shouted, “Walk! Walk!” until I released her. I realized I would have to assume full baby-wrangling duties if my wife was going to have any chance of getting some shopping done.

Hazel burrowed into a rack of sweaters, emerged for a moment and then disappeared into the pantsuits, squealing and giggling while I tried to catch her. Carrying a winter coat and my stylish, manly diaper bag made navigating tight spaces difficult, so when Hazel veered into the cramped discount racks, I had to strategically circumvent several rows of coats to head her off at the pass. This all might have been stressful, if not for the fact that it was so much fun to watch her antics: stomping across the floor, flailing her arms to keep balance, and stopping only occasionally to point at oversized Christmas ornaments hanging from the ceiling — “Red ball! Red Ball!” — before taking off again into the crowd of holiday shoppers.

She tottered through Calvin Klein, knocked Charter Club sweaters to the floor, and ran circles around Alfani evening wear. She couldn’t hide from me in the “Intimates” department (not much cover to be found there), but moments later I lost her in the Michael Kors section. When finally I flushed her out of hiding by shaking a rack of overcoats and making silly monster noises, she shrieked and ran through a gaggle of 10-year-old girls who were taking cellphone pictures with a life-size cardboard display of the band One Direction. I kept my head down, apologizing for the interruption while wending through their ranks in pursuit of my bounding toddler. And then I did that three more times, as Hazel kept looping back through the coterie of chattering boy-band fans.

Eventually my wife finished her shopping, but Hazel wasn’t done with her escapades. She evaded us by running behind an unused bank of cash registers, but a fleet-footed employee intercepted. Upon being returned to us, she wriggled and cried, “Walk! Walk!” all the way down the remaining escalators, out of the front door, and down to the subway platform.

The following weeks included all of the traditional holiday activities: scrambling to find presents, buying a few sale-items for myself along the way, eating, drinking, and the giving and receiving of gifts. While I enjoyed all of that, looking back, the high point of the holidays was an hour spent running in circles at a department store with my abundantly joyful daughter.

It’s easy to attach your happiness to the things you have or want. In recent years, though, more and more people are finding their ability to acquire things isn’t so certain. Many have found themselves slipping down the financial ladder because a bunch of greedy charlatans drove our economy into a ditch. It’s no wonder we’ve become obsessed with finding bargains — working hard builds character, but it may not build a nest egg anymore.

What I learned from Hazel this past season is that the most worthwhile things don’t have to cost much. Whether you have money to burn or not, it’s good to remind yourself of the value of time well spent. Stop buying stuff — or worrying about stuff — and just give your loved ones the gift of your full attention. Take a family portrait with Santa, whether or not you intend to buy it. Play hide-and-seek in the Michael Kors casuals, even if they’re out of your price-range. Just get out into the world with the people you care about. If you want your kids to learn about value, just show them what’s truly important to you. Happy New Year!

Tim Perrins is a part-time, stay-at-home dad who lives with his wife, their toddler, and two ravenous dogs in Park Slope, Brooklyn. More of his thoughts about babies and other things that confuse him can be found at www.RevoltOfTheImbeciles.blogspot.com.