By Kenneth L. Hardin

I want to experience Christmas as a child again. I miss that excited feeling of counting down the days on a calendar, looking through the Sears catalog to circle all the toys I wanted, decorating the tree and listening to the holiday music wafting out from the albums spinning on the stereo. There was nothing like hearing a young Michael Jackson’s voice screaming out how “Santa Claus is coming to town.”

I would excitedly grab the TV Guide to underline all the Christmas movies that were scheduled for the big three networks our TV was limited to. It was critical that the antenna planted in the ground on the side of our house was pointed in the right direction so there was no interruption. I wept for Frosty when he melted and cheered his remarkable frozen rejuvenation. I felt solidarity with Rudolph for standing up to bullies. I empathized with the Land of the Misfit Toys. It was great to see Kris Kringle’s beard change from red to white as he accepted his fate as the head elf in charge in “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

On Christmas Eve, I got nervously thrilled at hearing the local news reporter transition from covering the less important world and local topics and cut to a graphic tracking Santa’s route. He would always report him flying high above some country, whose name I was unfamiliar with, but still believed. When he urged me to go to bed, I was like a trained soldier following an order from  my commanding officer. My brother, who was the closest in age to me, and I would lie awake for what seemed like hours discussing what we thought we would have under the tree when we woke up the next morning. Although I was the youngest, I remember taking the lead and telling my siblings, “The sooner we go to sleep, the sooner Christmas will get here.” No one believed in that statement, not even me. There was one Christmas Eve, late in the wee hours of the morning, my siblings and I would all assemble together in a modern day White House Situation Room. I would be selected as the scout designated to slip down to the living room and report back what I saw under the tree. I got so bold and courageous one time, I pulled the tape back on gifts and peeked inside. I then put them back together and sprinted to the lair with the intel. These memories sustain me and I used them for motivation with my own children decades later.

I didn’t know being Santa’s adult assistant was so much work. And, when you’re not good working with your hands, it makes the task much more difficult. I was willing to put in the time, effort and energy to give my kids that same feeling and the great memories I had as a child. When the Nintendo 64 video game console debuted in 1996, my 5-year-old son said it was the thing he wanted the most from Santa. The only problem was the big fella made a small number of them and they were impossible to find. But I was determined. I drove to every Walmart and Kmart from N.C. to Maryland looking for a console but struck out. Dejected, I pointed the car back down I-85 towards the ‘Bury. I got off at the Jake Alexander Boulevard exit and decided I would make one more attempt at the Walmart formerly located in that plaza. I was sad, disillusioned and had little hope when I asked the employee at the toy counter if they were getting more consoles in. He reached under the counter and handed me a brand new box. The clouds parted, angels began to sing, trumpets blared loudly and I saw butterflies flying about as I took ownership of this glorious gift. He explained that they were giving them out only if customers asked to keep the potential problems down. I skipped out of the store towards my car with a single tear streaming down my face knowing that my son would be happy when he woke  up on Christmas morning.

Over the course of their childhood, I made other sacrifices like this to ensure my kids were happy that  morning. A few years ago, on a Christmas morning, my now-adult kids admitted that they stayed up after bedtime on many Christmas Eves with their ears to the air events and noses pressed against windows. They were listening and watching Santa’s exhausted helper bring the toys in and using coarse language trying to assemble others. Listening to them share their childhood Christmas memories was the best gift I’ve ever received.  Reflecting on these wonderful memories made me feel like that child filled with wonder once again.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.