Me with Joey late last week.

One of my family’s most cherished holiday photos is of me and my sister each sitting on a knee of the Santa Claus that used to occupy the Uncle Sam Atrium, back when it was a miniature downtown mall with its own movie theater rather than what it is today: a hollow glass monstrosity housing state workers and a CVS.

In the photo, my sister has a shit-eating grin on her face because I, at the age of two, had my mouth and eyes wide open in mid-scream as thick streams of tears poured over my bright red cheeks. Although the photo is decades old, the last time I saw it those tears were as clear and fresh as they day they fell. I’m pretty sure the photo actually cries like a South American statue of the Virgin Mary.

When my sister brought my nephew Joey (who turns two years old in February) to see a less than friendly St. Nick at the Lights in the Park in Albany, he had the same reaction. They did not take a photo, saving him the shame of twenty-nine years of jokes and mental scarring.

Laugh if you will, but can you blame us for our reaction? Claus is a loud, aggressive, hairy, unkempt fat man who wears the same sweatsuit every day. And he breaks into peoples’ houses. Santa isn’t magic, he’s homeless and desperate. He’s the guy I avoid making eye contact with at the bus stop.

My nephew Caden, on the other hand, did not cry. A very empathetic and observant toddler, he instead held his own and stared down the cruel Christmas tyrant. The photographic evidence:

What’s telling is not just Caden’s expression but that of his father (and my brother), Jack. They will sit with this madman, but they will not pretend to be appreciative of his company. And Jack, like me, remembers. He remembers, Claus.

So this, likely my penultimate Christmas post, goes out to my little nephews Caden and Joey, who will be having their first Conscious Christmas (that’s what it’s called when your kid is smart enough for the first time to realize he’s getting presents – start using it often) this year. Merry Christmas, you brave young souls, you princes of Troy, you Kings of New York.

And congratulations to Caden who, this year, becomes the first male toddler in three (four?) generations of Marshalls not to burst into frightened tears at the sight of Santa Claus.

My nephew (who turns 1 this Saturday) with a Certificate he received for his first haircut. He was unimpressed, and right after this picture was taken he threw it across the room in frustration.

I don’t blame him. They couldn’t at least frame it? C’mon now.