It’s dark, it’s cold and it’s morning---—Christmas morning. Someone is tugging on the comforter covering my shivering body. A voice whispers in my ear, “C’mon get up, it’s Christmas morning.” (I knew that already) I croak out an answer, “What time is it?” The voice continues, “I want to open presents—pleeeeeease.” Now a finger, poking gently (or not so) through flannel, into soft flesh. “C’mon, it’s getting late.”

Late? It hasn’t been more than five minutes. I give-in, throw off the covers and hear a muted “Yippee.” Why is he being so quiet? I’m up. My long winter’s nap and sugar-plums are just a distant memory. It seems like I just went to bed a few hours ago. It’s 6:30—by golly, I DID just go to bed a few hours ago. I have present wrapping hangover. You know the one; cramped fingers, aching back, ribbon overload. I mean, I love Christmas as much as anyone in my family, but for pete’s sake, it’s 6:30 and our kids are adults.

Well, except for one.

The oldest one (well, maybe not the actual oldest—that would be me), but the father figure, my husband, the love of my life and the only five-year-old left in the house.

We throw on sweats and I know the bells are next. I protest. “They know about Santa Claus already—they’re adults, remember.” His reply? “But the grandkids aren’t.” My reply? “THEY’RE STILL ASLEEP.”

I lose. He tiptoes toward the bedrooms where sleeping babies lie next to innocent parents who have no idea that they are about to be woken by the bells on Santa’s reindeer. By the time they realize it, my spouse has moved on to the next room of sleepy and unsuspecting children and grandchildren. I’m sure I hear one of them groan, “Oh, Dad, it’s too early.” Don’t they know that there is nothing stopping him now? Don’t they know that this is what he lives for; this is what drives him from bright (OK, dark) and early on the morning of Dec. 26 until bright and early on the morning of Dec. 25 the following year?

They are all up now; trudging down stairs, emerging from closed doors with crying babies wondering what is so important to rouse them out of bed before dawn.

But, the good thing is, I’m waking up. I’m getting into the spirit. I’m getting my coffee!

He’s ‘encouraging’ us to grab our coffee and settle into our designated spots. Before I give-in to that, we must have the picture. This one I insist on. They gather in the hall and slowly peak around the corner; feigning shock and joy at the plethora of presents under the tree. Santa has really come. I snap a picture for prosperity. The babies become animated, the grown-up children begin chattering and my husband is beside himself—another victory.

Minutes (OK maybe an hour) later and it’s done. I look around at smiling faces; the floor is covered in paper and bodies are flopped on couches, some snoozing, others in shock. I’m in the kitchen cooking breakfast and feeling a bit melancholy. He comes in, gives me a hug and then it starts. “Do you think they liked everything? Maybe we should have …” He pauses, “Next year we can …” I stop him. He continues. “Maybe I should get up earlier and start ringing the bells, that way …”

Oh goodness, he’ll never grow-up. And, I guess that’s a good thing.