I am enjoying a very quiet Christmas morning. Yes.
Quiet. Everyone else is still in bed.
I can remember when my girls were very young. There were many, many Christmases where they would wake us up as early as 3:30 in the morning because they were so excited! They would come skipping into my bedroom and squeal with delight to inform us that "Santa was here! Santa was here!"
I remember one Christmas when they were a bit older, before their baby brother was born (there is a ten year gap between youngest daughter and first son, and yes, he was a surprise!), I politely told them that they could
not wake me up until 6:00 a.m. because we were
not going to have a repeat of the previous year when they woke us up at 2:30 in the morning! I'm sorry, but 2:30 a.m. is just way too early.
That morning, my oldest daughter came into my bedroom, gave me a kiss, and said, "Mommy, its five, dot-dot-fifty-seven. Is that too early? We've been waiting since four, dot-dot oh five." (Gotta love how a kid reads a digital clock!)
I wasn't sure if I wanted to laugh at how sweet and innocent she sounded or cry for feeling like the world's worst mother! I didn't think they'd take me so literally!
Fast forward several years to when their baby brother is old enough to understand the whole Santa thing. While my daughters were always excited about Christmas (to the point of waking their mother up at 2:30 in the morning), their brother was not so inclined. The boy will be 16 next month. He has
never come crashing into my bedroom at ungodly hours to inform me that Santa has been here. Not once.
Every year its the same thing: we have to wake him up.
I can remember one year in particular when my daughters were beyond excited to watch their little brother open his presents. The girls were much older and I think Michael was eight or nine years old. The girls were up before the crack of dawn while their little brother slumbered. They were stunned that a little kid could still be asleep when it was Christmas morning! (It was, after all, way past five, dot-dot, fifty-seven!)
The girls, Kevin and I enjoyed coffee while Mike slept away as if it were not the most special and magical day of the year. I made the girls leave him to sleep -- much to their aggravation and dismay. Finally, I couldn't take their leg bouncing and repeated and stunned comments of "OhmygodIcan'tbelieveheis
stillsleeping!" any longer. It was 8:30 in the morning. They dragged him out of bed.
Now, don't get me wrong, the boy does love Christmas and yes he was always excited about the arrival of Santa. He's just an odd duck that doesn't feel the need to wake his mom up, not for any reason. This boy, even when he was little, would not wake me up, even in the middle of the night if he was sick.
I can't tell you the number of times I've awakened on a regular, every-day morning, to find my son sick, only to learn he'd thrown up three times in the middle of the night, or had a fever. "Why didn't you wake me up???" His response is always the same. "I didn't want to bother you and its not a big deal." Yes, that is the kind of kid he is.
So here it is, Christmas morning again. I've been up since 5:45. My husband woke up about 20 minutes ago and we waiting for our stoic son to rise. (My husband is worse than any little kid. If he'd had his way, he would have given us our presents last week but that's another story.)
As I write this, I can hear my husband's leg bouncing -- he's in the living room. And I know what he's thinking: OhmygodIcan'tbelieveheis
stillsleeping!
I'll sign off for now. I have a kid to wake up. Its tradition now.
