MARK MY WORD: NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS THINGS WERE A MESS

When you have young children, Christmas Eve is household chaos.

You know the poem. You hear it every Christmas.

But from this dad's perspective, Clement Moore's "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" just doesn't ring true.

When you have young children, Christmas Eve isn't a time of peace; it's household chaos.

As a journalist, I feel obligated to set the record straight.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring not even a mouse.

Obviously, no one was home or else the bug guy had just sprayed.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

Fire safety officials must cringe at the thought of such holiday hazards.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.

Did these parents give them drugs or what? Most children are bouncing off the walls Christmas Eve. They are already on a sugar high, even without sugar plums and can't wait for Santa to arrive with all those presents.

And Mama in her kerchief and I in my cap, had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap.

They don't sound like any parents that I know. When our children go to bed Christmas Eve, Joni and I usually have plenty left to do -- like putting together all those toys that need assembly.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutter and threw up the sash.

I probably would have called 911 instead of opening the window and letting in all that cold air.

At this point, Santa arrives in a "miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer."

I've never understood how a rotund Santa fits into a regular sleigh, much less a miniature one.

At any rate, Santa enters the home via the chimney, which surely is against all fire safety codes.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

Not a pretty sight.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

Either that, or more likely the neighborhood burglar who had already taken his share of presents from under the Christmas trees.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

Obviously, he had had a little too much eggnog Christmas Eve.

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

Nothing scares people as much as an unshaven stranger who just drops in uninvited.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

In other words, he was overweight and smoked too much. In health conscious America, Santa seems out of place. It's clear the tobacco companies are paying Santa's salary.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.

How do you know Santa is really happy? Maybe it is all an act. Maybe he has a really poor self-image from hanging around with Donner and Blitzen, and the rest of the reindeer gang.

In Moore's vision, Santa fills all the stockings. But the poem doesn't mention whether dad got the power tool he wanted.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle ...

It's unlikely that an overweight Santa would be running to his sleigh, especially since he had to expend all that energy climbing back up the chimney.

But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight, Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Sure. You woke the guy up, got ashes and soot all over the living room rug and the reindeer wrecked his roof. Now, you expect the guy to go back to sleep and wait until morning to open presents. You've got to be kidding?

Besides, Santa, you should wish people merry Christmas, not happy Christmas. And next year, use the front door.

~Mark Bliss is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.