I am up at the crack of dawn, scanning newspaper circulars for the elusive Wii. My son wants Nintendo’s newest game console for Christmas, and I’m determined to find it, come hell or high anxiety.

Unbelievably, I once again find myself among the legions of parent desperadoes unable to obtain the one thing their kid wants to find under the tree – those harried moms and dads willing to beg, bribe or steal to delight their children on Christmas morning. But unlike most of my counterparts, anxious to please their toddlers, 10-year-olds or teens, my son is 25 YEARS OLD!

I thought my kamikaze shopping days were over.

Pronounced “we” (as in “WE must be crazy to think WE will find this thing by Dec. 24th”), the Wii is this year’s Tickle Me Elmo – the “it” gift that’s impossible to obtain – on the Web or in stores – without committing a felony. According to Matt, my techie young colleague and a lucky Wii owner, it’s the best thing to happen to video gamers since Red Bull.

As my eyes scan the Wal-Mart, Target and Best Buy inserts, I recall all the times I went to drastic lengths to help Santa deliver money-bought happiness to my kids.

In the Ambush of ’83, I stormed the doors of Toys “R” Us looking to snag a Castle Grayskull and corner the market on He-Man and Masters of the Universe action figures for my 4-year-old boy. After a full-store press, I filled my cart with the castle and half a dozen plastic creatures with disturbingly huge thighs. Talk about the mother lode! I still remember the proposition I made in the aisle to a woman in red stirrup pants: “I’ll give you my Man-At-Arms for your Battle Cat!” She went for it. (Sucker!)

Then there was The Great Race for the elusive Super Mario Bros. 3 video game, my son’s “must-have-or-I’ll-die” item of 1990. I enlisted a SWAT team of grandmothers, aunts and friends from all over the country who spent hours searching, and eventually acquiring, the game whose musical theme would torment my brain for the next three years. (Or was that Super Mario 1?)

My daughter never made requests for impossible-to-find gifts. Oh, no. Her specialty was the last-minute, change-of-heart routine. This happened on Dec. 23, 1993, in a suburban mall when my little girl – 8 years old with a burgeoning case of Santa skepticism – hedged her bets by vaulting onto Old Nick’s lap and asking for – Gasp! – an American Girl doll named Kirsten, that plucky pioneer gal from 1854.

I charged onto Santa’s royal riser and cried, “But, honey? Don’t you mean you want Felicity, the spirited colonial girl from 1774?”

“No!” she answered, stomping her foot for emphasis (her signature move). “I want Kirsten! She looks like me!”

“But, Sweetie Pie Sugar Lumps,” I countered, smiling through gnashing teeth. “I’m sure Santa heard you say you wanted Felicity back on Thanksgiving …”

“He did not! Did you, Santa?” she replied, challenging the Jolly Old Elf himself.

The big man turned into a bowlful of jelly under pressure. He looked at me and shrugged, as if to say, “Lady, my knee’s killing me and I’m sweating bullets. There’s a cold Bud with my name on it over at T.G.I. Friday’s. Find another stooge, why doncha?”

I bolted for home with visions of overnight shipping charges dancing in my head.

(Free advice for young parents: NEVER take your child to see Santa after Dec. 10. Go early. Listen closely to what your kids whisper in Santa’s ear. Then, tell the little darlings that Santa doesn’t do change orders. He’s got a tight enough production schedule as it is.)

Suddenly, I come to a startling realization. My son’s not a child. He’s 25! He’s mature enough to grasp the concept of a rain check. If he doesn’t get what he wants by Dec. 25, he’ll live. After all, delayed gratification builds character. He can wait, if necessary.

Still, when I think of his droopy little face as he watches the rest of us happily opening presents on Christmas morning, I can’t stand it.

I wonder if my techie young friend, Matt, can be bought.