Ho-ho, hack-hack

THE KIDS ALL HAVE puppy breath and nagging Christmas coughs. You can hear them hacking at the holiday concert in the big auditorium, full of parents and grandparents who are coughing, too.

“Ring silver bells ... hack-hack-hack.” Or, “Silent night, holy night ... hack-hack-hack.”

“I’m not letting anyone borrow my ChapStick,” the little girl announced on the car ride to the auditorium.

“Good idea,” I said.

“Or my lip gloss,” said her friend, hack-hack-hack.

Christmas is almost here, along with about a billion cold germs and debilitating, death-defying credit card debt. But it’s here just the same. I know because traffic is getting worse by the moment, and you can’t find a parking space anywhere, except maybe North Dakota. It’s the closing days of Christmas. God rest ye merry, gentlemen. But not just yet.

The mail pours in each day, advertising epic last-minute sales, along with packages and dozens of cards from old friends. We sent 220 million Christmas cards ourselves this year, which is 30 million fewer than last year after we discovered that we had actually been sending some to dead people. That saved us $11 million in postage, right there.

See, we’re getting a handle on Christmas, even if others aren’t. On the boulevard, a dealership shows off a ripe red Jaguar, shiny as an ornament, with an enormous ribbon on its creamy hood. Is there anything that says Christmas more than an overpriced sedan? No, though I suspect a good Christmas is even bigger than sedans. More profound. More artful.

With each passing year, for reasons both economic and emotional, I believe a real Christmas is a hundred little blessings all strung together -- a perfect cup of coffee, a full grocery cart. Chili simmering on the stove, a kid home from college. After nearly half a century, I’ve discovered that Christmas isn’t grand slams. It’s 3,000 winning hits. Dinkers, with eyes.

With that in mind, I offer you this little Christmas prayer. It doesn’t ever need charging. Sharper Image doesn’t carry it. Or Brookstone. How good can it be? Probably not very. Indeed, individual results may vary:

A Christmas prayer

If you are 3 years old, I pray you’ll sit on grandpa’s knee. Share a joke. Laugh like you’re loaded. Remind grandpa that good things come in small packages. Like you. Watch his eyes turn 32.

If you are 8, I pray you’ll get that skateboard. Or that iPod docking port. Or better yet, a Roth IRA. It’ll show that someone thinks about your future. Because you sure don’t. You’re 8. Skate on, little dude.

If you are 14, I pray you’ll call someone far away. Wish her well. No, not by e-mail. Or by text message. There’s this thing you have: it’s called your voice. Unique as a snowflake. Pretty as a country choir.

If you are 20 and far from home, I pray you’ll remember the way the kitchen smelled when Mom made pancakes. Or the funny way Dad cursed when he carried in the tree. Your old bed. Your sister’s laugh. The sound of the oven door.

If you are a mom, I pray you’ll find that parking spot right by the mall. I pray the Xbox will still be there. Go ahead, bust that budget. What the heck, Washington does.

If you are a dad, I pray you’ll have a white Christmas. Start with a couple of aspirin. They’re white. Chase them with a good martini. It’s kind of white. Repeat as needed.

And, if you’re a grandparent, I hope that on Christmas Eve a tiny tot will climb into your lap, gift you with a silly joke, roar at his own punch line. Life is one long punch line. I pray you’ll always laugh.

Merry Christmas.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.