Idea:

this is a seedling, and it may grow, but I don't know...

“I wish every day was Christmas,” and though he did not realize that those words, spoken at exactly 9:57 on a Saturday morning, carried not the ususal resonance of a passing fancy, but because they had been heard by the morning star, who was late going to bed and had overheard this little boy, whose name was Northrop Windsor Elias Polumpus, and having taken a fancy to him for no particular reason, decided to speak to the moon and her fellow star friends about potentially bringing this possibility into the realm of the real.

They gathered on the edge of mid afternoon under the shadow of a Siberian Pine in the middle of a long-abandoned field in the eastern hemisphere, and in less time than it took Northrop, or North, as his mother called him, to blink his eye, it was agreed upon. Christmas it will be then. They had settled on a year, and then would re-assess at the end of the year in the event that humanity had gotten tired of cheerfulness and gift-giving, but stars can be a bit dim in understanding the ebb and flow of human emotions.

North woke up the next morning to have breakfast with his father, who made a terrible face as he drank his coffee. His terrible face was because of what he was reading in the paper. The government had decided in a fit of inspiration that everyday was to be Christmas, and harsh penalties would be applied to any child or grown-up not in possession of a daily gift. The parameters were strictly outlined in the papers across the country, and the world. Each present was to be wrapped with a minimum of 6 folds, and not to exceed 36 creases, unless the design of the paper was made pre-crinkled. Strict taxes would be levied against infractors of the Christmas rules. The morning star did nothing half-way.