Christmas dinner was always my favorite meal relating to Christmas. My plate would look a bit like this: On one side a gigantic mass of red cranberry sauce, and on the other, there was a mountain of mashed potatoes that had been drowned mercilessly in a river of gravy. In between the two monster helpings of food there would be a small slice of turkey.

I didn’t really eat much meat on Christmas Eve, because of that nervous apprehension that falls over children when christmas nears, but I did eat a lot of other foods.

After the Christmas dinner was finished, we had our annual reading of A Child’s Christmas in Wales before going to bed. Then came the undebated favorite part of every child’s Christmas. The presents. I always woke up early. There has never been a time where I haven’t woken up too early on Christmas. Our family had a rule that no one was allowed out of our rooms until seven. That rule was complete torture. I would like to think that they were trying to teach us a lesson of patience, but the waiting only made us more impatient. Before I learned how to read there was nothing I could do. I would just sit up in bed and stare at the far wall, that nervous excitement welling up inside me like a tidal wave. Once it was seven o’clock we would have to wait a couple more minutes for everyone to wake up, and then our ceremony would begin.

We would walk slowly down the stairs, and then turn into the living room to see a room filled with presents, and then was when the nervous excitement broke, and it was all joy. Of course, no one dared speed up the pace, we would copy exactly what the adults were doing, as if we were afraid that the presents would disappear if we did anything out of line. We would whisper amongst ourselves as we creeped agonizingly slow towards the true glory of Christmas.

Once within five feet of the gifts, we could no longer resist. We would rush to the pile of presents that were ours and sit down. We would wait for the parents to open them. By the time we were sitting down the parents were still near the bottom of the stairs (it’s a wonder that people with such long legs have such a slow pace). Once they sat down they would call for Parker to open his presents first. That was the tradition in the family.

Being the oldest in the family I would have to wait the longest. When my turn finally came to open my presents, I was nearly bursting with excitement. Toys were being played with all around me, and I was ready to see what mine were. As usual, I would be filled with joy upon seeing anything that was mine and new, especially when it was on my list. I will always remember the savage joy that I got when tearing the ripping paper off a present. 

The toys (it never mattered what they really were) were always, in my opinion, the best part about Christmas. It was something about the magic and puzzlement of receiving presents from someone unknown to you. It could make you believe that you could have an abnormal life, and that there was something truly special in this world after all.

Christmas night was sometimes even more celebrated than Christmas Eve. There was lots of music, most of it boring, but some of it danceable, and the children would put away their toys and try in vain to socialize with the many vague relatives in the gathering. The adults would drink eggnog spiked with rum, and milk around trying to cover up the disappointments of the party’s turnout. After the party (and sometimes during) the children, including me, would be put to bed. I would lay on the pull out sofa (it was always a pullout sofa) and thank the magic, or whatever it was, for another satisfying Christmas. Then, slowly, my child’s mind would drift off to other topics and I would gradually fall asleep.