The Best Moment of Christmas Day, 2006

was the Maker’s, age 6.

The way Christmas morning works in our house is that everyone waits on me. I’m not a morning person, in comparison with the rest of my family, all of whom have actually witnessed the sun rising in the east. However, I’d like to point out that I was up past midnight, making sure Santa had no difficulties with anything. I’ll also mention, since it’s my personal blog, that when we got home from church around 9 pm, the Husband said, “I’m exhausted, wake me up later and I’ll help you.” I charitably and without a hint of sarcasm replied, “Oh sure, honey,” and rolled my eyes after he looked away. The night belongs to me. And why shouldn’t it? I live in a household with all males, and don’t even get my own bathroom. A woman has to create her space somehow.

But as I was saying, I had gotten to bed pretty late (1 am) and at 4:50 am (after precisely 3 hours, 50 minutes of sleep for Yours Truly) I heard the distinctive rapid-fire Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump of a water buffalo galloping down the stairs of our suburban domain. This mom-alarm was followed by a tiny “tink” as the Christmas tree lights were turned on (we have a Marvelous Magic Snowflake), and silence.

Since the silence remained unbroken by the sound of ripping paper and shouting, I went back to sleep. They can wait on me. Meanwhile, plenty of time to hand-squeeze Mom some fresh orange juice, right? Heh.

I was willing to be drawn from my toasty comforter by 7 am (precisely 6 hours, minus the Thump-Thump-Tink interval, of sleep), and the circus commenced. The boys all received tool boxes and padlocks (remind me to post on why this was a great gift), and they saw those immediately, since they were not wrapped.

The Maker, being the smallest and quickest, was the first to pounce upon his biggest present, which was under his toolbox, and about twice the size. He levered it up onto the couch (my dias), and excitedly began to gesticulate and exclaim, “Oh, oh, oh! I hope it’s something I really, really want!” To which I replied out of actual curiosity, “What do you really, really want?” “I don’t KNOW!” he cried gleefully, ripping paper from the roughly 12 x 20 inch cardboard box, “…A bike?”

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