A true Christmas story

A true story:

When the Scooby Doo gang’s Rube Goldberg trap misfires, the feet of the Mayan Gods land in large metal springs. Suddenly vulnerable, they bounce pogo-like into a nearby pond. Their masks fall away. These are no vengeful, angry gods. It’s the archaeologist and his wife, in disguise!

My youngest nephew’s eyes are small moons of surprise. “They’re just people!” the cute little chub-bucket explains to my older sister, his high-pitched, three-year-old voice an octave higher, his tiny finger crooked toward the television. “The monsters are just people!”

This is what it means to be a kid. On Christmas morning, I come downstairs in a t-shirt and bath towel, an accusatory finger pointed at the wrapped packages under the tree. “Santa brought you all presents,” I shout at my three namesakes. “But he stole my pants!”

They giggle at the thought of a mischievous, thieving Santa. But hours later, at dinner, the cute little chub-bucket recalls a dream he’d had during his nap.

“There was the mummy from Scooby Doo in the closet,” he tells us, in a voice absent humor or irony. “And a really creepy hand. And Santa Claus on the roof. And then he came down into my room. And he stole my pants.”

I am beginning to think my nephew is too impressionable, even for age three.