Years ago I attended the the television station's Christmas party where my father worked in San Jose with my two sons, Josh and Cobb, their mother, and my father and step-mother. There were perhaps forty children, with at least twice that number of parents and grandparents in attendance.
Hocus Pocus the clown entertained the kids with magic tricks and clowning around. There was singing and other merriment, and then it came time to hand out the forty or so presents the company provided to the children. Each present had a name on it, as they were gender and age specific. Two young teenage girls dressed as elves had the task of grabbing a present from under the tree, calling out the name, and handing the present to the each child. The kids would then take their gift up on the stage and gleefully tear off the wrapping and begin playing with their new toy.
We were sitting fairly near the back of the room, and it wasn't too long before Josh's name was called. We were happy to watch him run up to the elves, be handed a present, and scramble up on the stage.
More names were called, and more names still. As the children and parents vacated the seats in front of us, our family moved forward, nearer and nearer to the tree. I would look at Cobb every once in awhile, and I could see the anticipation on his face, and his eagerness to hear his name called.
More children's names were called, and by this time, the stage was crowded with excited children playing or noisily unwrapping their presents.
Eventually, we found ourselves at the very front of the hall, next to the Christmas tree, with Cobb being the last child. An elf picked up the last present under the tree, read the label, turned to my patient son and exclaimed:
"You must be Cobb!"
