I’m sitting here on Christmas Eve thinking about Christmases past.
One thing that comes to mind, especially now that I’ve seen many Christmases come and go is the delightful feel of excitement leading to the big day.
That uber feel of suspense at what awaited me on Dec. 25 was overwhelming almost.
One Christmas my excitement drove my parents crazy.
I must have been 4 or 5 and they decided as we headed home in the car that I could unwrap one present when we got home.
Man, that was a big deal, until I peeled away the wrapping.
Mind you, it was a great gift – a robot if memory serves.
But I felt depressed that I had somehow cheated my Christmas morning.
I made sure never to agitate for an early gift reveal again.
Christmas morning as a kid was almost unbearable, especially since I usually roused the house before dawn, while it was still dark.
I remember my disappointment at my brother one Christmas morning when I started the pre-dawn attack.
He was college age – we were 12 years apart – and he was not imbued with the Christmas spirit as I jumped on his bed.
I will duly note that his Christmas presents rose to the level of the ones my parents got me since he was closer to remembering what little boys wanted.
My mother announced when I was seven there was no Santa.
Moreover, in a slightly less disappointing remark, New Year and Christmas were not on the same day.
Somehow I got that confused, but not after I was seven.
When my two sons were little they received no such notice that Santa wasn’t real. They kind of came to that realization later than 7, though not much later.
They didn’t have my up-with-the chickens wakeup call on Christmas.
I guess I held on to that in adulthood, because I awoke early in anticipation of how they would react to their presents.
There was one Christmas Eve when the some-assembly-required adage held true.
Some part to a red wagon, which should have been a slam dunk to put together, was hard to find and brought things to a halt.
It was found but the memory still sears my mind to this day.
Now, I have only one grandchild, out of four, who’s still a kid.
He’s 10 and I hope that feeling of wonderment still takes hold.