Now that summer is over, every retailer will soon be swapping out their Halloween items (which have been out since the Fourth of July) for their Christma…. I mean holiday… displays.

Well, every retailer except those absurd Christmas ornament stores that are open year round and of course, Hershel’s Discount Menorah Outlet.

For our brood, the sign that the holiday season is just a scant 111 days away is the initial planning for our annual holly jolly party. The discussion began at our recent Labor Day cook-out.

A couple of years ago – after dozens of celebrations of the Noel and tens of thousands of dollars spent on under-the-tree swag – the wife and I ran out of gift ideas. Not just for each other, but also for our now grown children.

At least we were blessed with the grand gnome, which gives grandma and me an excuse to overspend on the coolest toys that I wish were socially acceptable for us to play with.

Additionally, I’ve been forced to supply my mother with presents for the last 48 years – well, maybe 42 – the first six years of bounty consisted of cheesy crayon drawings or some unidentifiable ceramic animal from kindergarten class.

The only things left to buy my 68 year-old mom for any holiday are life-saving surgical procedures and orthopedic shoes – and I’m pretty sure Medicare covers them both.

To be fair, the stuffed stocking is also on the other foot. We are in need of absolutely nothing here at The Palace – unless someone wants to buy us a new Jacuzzi – so it’s equally as difficult for our offspring, siblings and other members of this human psychiatric experiment gone awry to buy presents for us.

Since we had decided many years ago to treat each of our children to a birthday dinner at a four or five star restaurant instead of buying them clothes they won’t wear or a gift card that seemed tacky or thoughtless, we agreed on a similar celebration for the holidays.     

Now, if you happen to be related to me – or if you happen to be a semi-regular reader of this blog – you know I’m a strong proponent of having any child under 12 arrested for patronizing a fine dining establishment.

And, since we Americans do not torture, I’m still undecided on the punishment for the parents who bring the apprentice hoodlums to the aforementioned restaurants.

Last year, we secured a ‘private area’ at Ruth’s Chris Steak House and the immediate family (including my mother, brother and sister-in-law) joined in to celebrate the season.

The private area – booked, by the way, with the understanding that we would be in a private room – was no more than a dining table set for 12 surrounded by three sides of partitioning.

We requested this type of isolated dining space as a result of my crusade against children in restaurants. How hypocritical would I be if our very own grand imp were guilty of interrupting our fellow diners’ evenings by screaming, wailing and running laps around the flambé table?

The National Enquirer would have a field day with that one.

But our fears were unfounded. The grandchild was quite content to sit in the high chair, glom portions of every entrée the rest of us ordered, and amuse himself throughout the two-and-a-half hour meal.

This year – with the gnome being a full year older and a full-speed terror on two Crocs – our level of uncertainty is being to rise.

When he finishes his at-home meals now he does so with an enthusiastic announcement: “DOWN!”

‘Yes, Justin, you can get down when we’re finished eating.’

“DOWN!”

‘Justin, finish your juice and you can get down.’

“DOWN!”

Once released from his plastic-harnessed-hell, the sprite either bolts into another room (forcing an adult to give chase) or attempts to drive his all-terrain matchbox vehicle through someone’s Caesar salad.

Either way, this variety of unruly public behavior is simply not acceptable.

I think the wife and I will go back to giving each other gifts this year – a late December trip to Bermuda or the Bahamas sounds like a one-size-fits-all kind of reward.

I just hope the rest of the family makes their dinner reservations early. Dining bunkers with extensive wine lists aren’t exactly a dime a dozen.

By J. Doug Gill