Finite the Comedy

An enormous bag of old children’s toys was gathered and it was time to get rid of it somehow, but not to throw it away.
Soldiers, machinery and pistols son washed in the dishwasher, soft toys washed, and we took all this to the entrance, so that the kids could disassemble who would like.

And here, while my Yura, on the table at the mailboxes, was beautifully laying down his transformers and chuburashes, a man in a hat entered the entrance. He greeted, stopped, looked at the plush elephants and begemoths, struck my son’s head and looked at me, sadly said:

Maybe that’s all? The end of the comedy?
Yes, maybe it is all.
It is sorry. He was such a good boy.
Yes, I am sorry for myself.
Are you going to give birth to another?
I don’t even know, I would like to... How are you doing?
Do not ask, children grow like yeast, and no one in the house gives birth to new ones, trouble.

We said goodbye and went out on the street to the joyful spring sun.
Yura remained silent for a while, then looked at me carefully and asked:

“Daddy, why did you talk about me at the funeral?”
In the sense?
“That’s all, sorry, he was such a good boy.” What does it mean? I am not dead yet.
“Well, what are you, just... he meant that you’ve grown up and... he’s a bit sorry that you’ve stopped playing toys.
I understand, but has he anything to regret? Why do we have our children at home? Maybe he is a maniac?

I somewhat cleverly twisted, translated everything into a joke and cleverly changed the subject.
Well, in fact, not to tell the son, that that careless man in a hat, every New Year, with jokes and spells, a whirlwind broke into us in a red coat, with a white beard and a bag of gifts behind the back.
Comedy is a comedy, sorry.