You'll Shoot Your Eye Out!

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. The stockings are hung, the fake tree is lit, and the annual 24-hour marathon of A Christmas Story is poised to hit TBS. It's my favorite time of year, and it's gotten me thinking about my family's Christmas traditions growing up. It was always so magical and exciting; it's a wonder I didn't pee my pants more often. Although I'm sure Santa would not have passed judgement.

I would fall asleep listening for the sounds of hooves on the roof. Then my sister and I would wake up at the BUTTcrack of dawn and go join our older brothers, who were - of course - already awake. The sun wasn't up but why shouldn't we be? So we'd bide our time doing God-knows-what. Laughing, playing Nintendo, and pacing in anticipation of the magical hour - 8 AM. This was the time we were allowed to alert the media, ring the church bells, and .... yes, wake our parents. At 7:59 we would line up in age order and wait with bated breath for the eighth hour to strike. Mom and Dad's alarm clocks were rendered unnecessary; the cavalcade of our stampeding feet always did the trick.

As soon as we got the 'rents downstairs, it was time for Moses Masterpiece Theater. This was an adorably amateur skit written and performed each year by my older brothers. My sister would be roped in for cameos as needed, but I - being the baby and unable to remember lines or follow any type of direction - was always banished to the audience. After the curtain fell (no curtain) and roses were thrown on stage (no roses), the logical next step was to examine the presents.

Knowing their children's tendency to feel out gifts like Helen Keller reading Braille, my parents came up with a plan that was as ingenious as it was frustrating: color-coded labels. Even if one of us broke away and peeked under the tree ahead of schedule, we had no way of knowing which gifts were ours. It drove me up a wall. "I'm probably green this year. No, wait... I was green last year so I'm probably red. Except red is Tim's favorite color so maybe.....no..... wait, but what if..... aww, shit."

Eventually all was revealed and the gifts were doled out. And there was always a pile set aside from "Santa". Color me naive, but I genuinely thought these presents arrived separately from a fat bearded man whose sleigh was driven by a herd of flying deer. Why the hell wouldn't they be? Never mind the fact that his handwriting was suspiciously identical to my mother's.

Cue endless joy and merriment, mixed in with five loaves of my great-grandmother's Swedish Coffee Bread and a forest's worth of torn wrapping paper. I'd call that a pretty damn good way to spend a holiday with family. Over the years, the tradition has evolved. The setting and circumstances have changed but all the main characters remain the same. I feel extremely blessed and grateful and happy. If I was Santa, I would shake my belly like a bowl full of jelly. I might just, anyway.