My favorite Christmas tradition is the
total chaos and disorder I remember from my youth—anxious kids up at dawn, shrieking and cajoling to get started,
while bleary-eyed grownups stand around in their pajamas, cups of
coffee glued to their hands. No breakfast, no ceremony. As soon as
everyone's in the vicinity, it happens—that ancient, mystical
ram's horn signal audible only to children—and the mayhem begins.
Imagine a cross between a Brazilian
soccer stadium riot and a prairie bison stampede. Paper, ribbon,
cards & envelopes shoot like projectile shrapnel across the room.
Kids turn into circus contortionists as they climb over each other to
get at packages on the other side of the tree. Grownups step further
and further back from the Circle of Destruction, dumbstruck, still
not fully comprehending that they're out of bed. And almost as
suddenly as it begins, it's over. Each child retreats to her or his
own spot in the living room to pile, sort, stack, count, and start
ripping open their booty. The grownups, whose still-wrapped presents
now lie scattered in undignified heaps around the room, retreat to
the kitchen for more coffee.
One Christmas my older brother and I
got up in the middle of the night and pried each of our presents
open, then carefully re-sealed them. Our fake surprise the next
morning was Oscar-worthy. (The next year, Mom used her own secret
code on the gift tags and wrapped all our presents in Knox gelatin
and saltine boxes. Touché, Mom.)
Another Christmas, when I was living in Lincoln, my friend and I
drove to Omaha in the wee hours, then woke my family up at 4 a.m.,
singing loud, off-key carols. I'm pretty sure most of them have
forgiven me.
This Christmas, we had a smallish
gathering, since none of my brothers—in Kansas, Ohio and
Ecuador—could make it. Foolishly overconfident due to our small
numbers, we decided to try polite & tidy. We managed 1½ circuits
of round-robin present opening before the confetti started flying. It
quickly devolved into a 5-minute shredding frenzy that I watched,
agog, from a safe distance. When it was over, the house looked like
it had been hit with a Wal-Mart carpet bomb. Perfect! And I
lovedlovedloved the soundtrack—squeals, shrieks of surprise, belly
laughs, oh-my-goshes, a little knife-sharp familial sarcasm, and
occasional spontaneous outbursts of goofy singing.
So as I sit in my quiet, post-Christmas
cookie & Chex Mix stupor, I can't put into words how grateful I
am. Believe me, I know how lucky we are to have gathered—four
generations of us—for another loud, messy celebration overflowing with love--the REAL blessing of this and every season.
To make matters worse, I had a long list of things I’d
hoped to accomplish over break. But I’ve mostly been watching Finding Bigfoot or Ancient
Aliens (that guy’s gotta know his hair makes it impossible to take him
seriously, right?), mechanically moving Chex Mix from bag to mouth. Just a big
‘ole furry blanket-covered slug.
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