Oh, yes, it’s true. Every year as a child, I got so excited about Santa that I became physically ill. No lie. I couldn’t eat Christmas dinner until the age of seven, or so, and the smell of turnip turned my stomach for years.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t this particular Santa that I got excited about. He appears a tad bit sinister, but the jolly version that came down our chimney? I’d go into a frenzy over his arrival.

I don’t know what got me so excited in hindsight. It wasn’t entirely the toys, as much as I loved to receive them, and obviously I didn’t anticipate dinner. Maybe the magic of the season caused the upset stomach and pasty shade of pale. Believing that someone with that generous a spirit would visit our house, eat our cookies, and think in some way that we were special? Wow! Then again, maybe the fact that my older brother made the nice instead of naughty list made my stomach turn. Tee hee.

I don’t know how kids can stand it in this “modern age.” It’s ridiculous how advertising for Christmas begins right after Halloween. If they’d done that in the 60s, I would have ended up hospitalized.

Is it just me, or does Christmas come far too early now? Must we perpetuate the commercialism of the season by advertising on the first of November? Could we not just let kids feel the mystery and magic of the season in a less price-tagged, down-your-throat manner, and for a shorter period of time? Postpone the insanity by a few short weeks?

Of course, the question that begs to be asked here is: “Has Leana finally reached the age where she’s spouting off sentences that start with Back in my day . . . ?”

Yes, I suppose I have, but back in my day things seemed a whole lot simpler, and I’m grateful to have grown up when I did. Of course, if you don’t know any different, I suppose it all seems just as magical to kids now as it did to me then.

Does the prolonged Christmas madness deprive kids of getting sick over Santa’s arrival, or does it save them from it? Maybe having more time to think about it stretches the nauseating anticipation out to a thin, benign thread.

I have no idea, but I do know one thing: If I hear Madonna’s version of “Santa Baby” one more time, I’m going to vomit.