The President with the kids at the Palace. A day about giving. Naturally, he gave credit — mostly to himself. “[Children,] you’re why we work.” Immediate applause from, well, the cameramen.

The kids? Zero enthusiasm. Children feel the vibration instantly — tiny radars for phonies. They barreled forward, arms out, faces full of hope, trying to hug Bongbong, who’s smiling. Kind of.

A tiny hand pokes the belly. They’re checking the seams, giving the imaginary beard a suspicious sniff. A boy reaches up and nudges the chin. “Is this smile attached to an actual person? Is this real Santa? Aha! Fake! Fake, fake!”

It was an informal audit conducted by toddlers, simply ensuring that the adult in front of them wasn’t trying to slip a lie into their Christmas.

“Why does your palace have lights and we have floods?” one might have asked. “President, if you love us, why is the bridge still broken?” These questions could have aborted an administration if only the adults had the guts to ask.

And just like that, they saw it: Leaders can be inherently “bad” on TV and still play nice while they inherit the bill for six years of lies.

Security swooped in. Finally, some action. The fastest they’ve moved all year. A human wall between the children and the man who says, “You’re the reason we work.”

The poor kids froze, probably thinking: “Why does Santa need bodyguards?” And you know what? That was the most honest political analysis of the entire month.

People think presidents get hugged all the time. Wrong. Power is not huggable. The kids wanted Santa President; the Palace offered them a protected exhibit. Bongbong’s face betrayed the panic of a man realizing the guards know he’s breakable and the kids know he’s replaceable.

You feel bad for BBM. Almost. Because if you’re going to play Santa, you’d better bring more than gifts — you’d better bring the energy.

You could see the President trying. You could practically see him negotiating with his cheek muscles.

Smile, presidential — the one his staff probably said reads as “warmth,” but the kind you muster when you’ve just stubbed your toe but have to say “Merry Christmas.” You could hear the hinge squeaking on the side of the mouth.

He attempted a pat, a nod, “Ho, ho, ho,” probably tried leaning into the chaos, but his expression betrayed a man balancing irritation with the knowledge that cameras were everywhere. “Ho, ho, ho, help!”

Bongbong was irritated and knew deep down that this was an act, like he’d just been reminded of an appointment he didn’t schedule but cannot cancel because it’s Christmas and there are scandals and he needs to look relatable.

Mr. President, you can’t manufacture joy for those born honest. If a child calls you out, admit it. You’re faking it. But Christmas? That’s real.