My hands are freezing as I shiver and stare at the glowing bullseye above me with throngs of other parents just standing there waiting — waiting for that magical moment when the automatic doors slide open and we get our chance to make a Christmas miracle. Finally, it happens. A tall man in a red shirt and khakis unlocks the door and announces to the horde: “We have 20 Hatchimals. If you are given a coupon then you may purchase a Hatchimal.” The disappointment is palatable as a collective sigh goes up among the crowd. I quickly do the math: No. 31 — that is my place in line. No Hatchimal today.

Why is it that parents feel compelled to wait in line in the cold at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning for a chance at that golden ticket, or in this case a Target Hatchimal coupon? At least with a Wonka bar you got to eat the chocolate if you didn't win.

It's clearly a modern invention. No Victorian-age parent stood outside the general store patiently waiting for that bright new shiny hoop and stick little Louisa had her eye on. They had bigger things to worry about back then like whether they were going to survive winter.

My parents never waited in line to buy a toy, and we had wonderful Christmases. My husband actually received a letter from Santa one year that read, “Dear Mikie, I am sorry I couldn't get you anything on your list this year, but I think I brought you some other nice presents anyway.” He still has that letter.

I am not sure when waiting in line became a rite of passage for parents. But it wasn't just the parents of the past being apathetic to the desires of their children that prevented them from waking up before that rooster crowed to get that coveted spot in line. Many kids themselves were too busy working in fields or factories to ponder what it would be like to have a fancy cup and ball or a new set of jacks. They were more concerned about the bigger issues like eating and finding wood for fires. Not haranguing their parents with stories about how Jeremiah down the road got a brand new yo-yo.

Now I am not saying we should go back to the days of child labor, even though it would be nice to have some help around the house. However, it does say something about our society. We as a collective nation have so much and want for so little that we create these false crises — these feelings that if you don't supply your child instantly with the thing they want most that somehow makes you a bad or incompetent parent, or that your parental worth is tied to whatever novelty or fad is taking hold of the public that year and you should feel guilty if you can't deliver.

The fundamental problem is that the world moves so quickly now, and each parent who celebrates Christmas knows that the Santa window is very small. We each try our best to sustain that wonder in our children for as long as possible, to hold them back from growing up too fast and realizing that Christmas is now more about commercialism than compassion. We want to keep that hope and belief alive for just one more year.

So, when your 6-year-old says to you, “it's OK if you don't buy me a Hatchimal Mommy — Santa can,” and you try to explain to her that sometimes Santa can't bring everything, but she looks up at you with those bright blue eyes and says with the innocence only a kindergartner can radiate, “Yes, he can, Mommy, he's magic,” you come to realize something deep: Waiting in line to buy an egg that grows into a homely bird creature may be a legitimate way to spend a Sunday morning after all.

Michelle Turner Wherley works in Timonium; her email is mt3755a@yahoo.com.