In a dogged pursuit to create lasting Christmas memories for my son, I signed us up to be in the Holidazzle parade. I envisioned us having an idealistic Father and son night, one filled with enchantment. We would be costumed and bedazzled and lit up and set on a float that was to be surrounded by elves and reindeer and Santa and paraded right down the Nicollet Mall for all of the Twin Cities to see. But when Murphy got home from school, he was sick, white as a ghost, actually. And in seconds, my holiday stockings were stuffed with coal. He said he didn’t feel good and went straight to bed. 

“But he was supposed to be a cuddly snow monkey!” I said to my wife, as my voice dripped with a shrill disappointment. “He’s on the circus float with all of his cousins! I was supposed to be a toy soldier with my brother and sister!”

As my son slept on the couch for the next hour, I paced in desperation. But miraculously, he woke up and said he felt fine. We were giddy with a festive glee because Christmas had been resurrected.  My wife, though, is always sensible and had a different opinion on the matter.

“He’s sick,” Sarah offered privately as we discussed the situation out of ear shot in the kitchen. “He has a runny nose, he’s pale, and he won’t eat anything.”

“And?”

“Its ten degrees outside,” Sarah said logically. “He’s been up since 6 a.m. He had a play date this morning. Then he went to school.  And now you want to stick him on a float? He’s ready for bed.”

“It’s the Holidazzle!” I hollered. “We’re supposed to be making memories!”

Murphy was clearly showing signs that he was sick and shouldn’t go. But every Dad has a little bit of Clark Griswold in him that makes him forge ahead with his plans no matter how illogical they seem. Our “inner Griswold” is irrational (and sometimes deranged) and it can’t resist ripe opportunities (such as participating in the Holidazzle) that could potentially create memories that would be cherished for a life time. Whether it is the Holidazzle or taking the kids apple picking or going to chop down your own Christmas tree or driving 18 hours in a minivan to Yellowstone, parents are constantly in a hot pursuit for family fun. But more often than not, these events only turn out to be good in theory. Our attempts at quality family time usually end up a domesticated shit storm of hunger, sleep deprivation, tantrums, and fierce marital squabbles that begin and end with the all important question: “Whose idea was this?” Undeterred in the pursuit creating precious holiday memories, I dragged my sleepy eyed son downtown and crammed him into a white furry snow monkey costume and stuck him on a float. 

As Murphy valiantly rode on the circus float with his cousins, I marched in the street next to him. Dressed in my super gay-Coldplay meets Napoleon-tight soldier jacket that glittered with sequins, I waved like a pageant queen to the thousands of spectators. Half way down the parade route, someone in the crowd yelled out my name. I slowed down my parade speed shuffle and scanned the sidewalk. I was mortified to see a twenty something college girl that I worked with this summer screaming my name.

“Oh! My! God! Todd!” Annabelle said. “I hardly even recognized you!”

“Really?” I said sarcastically, as my black top hat and Isaac Mizrahi designed military uniform blinked with Christmas lights.

After the Holidazzle parade, hundreds of friends and the family members of Holidazzle participants were treated to pizza, treats and hot cocoa in a grand ballroom inside the Hyatt Regency. The entire Smith family commandeered a back table and happily gorged on free food. After a few minutes, Murphy had enough.

“Can we go now?” He asked. 

“Sure, buddy,” I said. Murphy lovingly put his little hand inside mine as we exited the ballroom. When we reached the middle of the classy hotel lobby, I bent over to zip up his jacket. As I was down on one knee, Murphy reared back and projectile vomited all over the marble floor of the Hyatt Regency.

Now that’s one holiday memory no one will forget.