When I was a child, Christmas was my favorite holiday. It was the favorite holiday for my brother and sister as well but for slightly different reasons. I turned maniacal over the presents while my brother and sister turned maniacal over torturing me.
Somewhere around 5 AM I would awake and make an immediate beeline to my parents' bed. Upon arrival I would launch myself on my poor sleeping father's chest which I would turn into my own personal bouncy house while peeling his eyelids back asking in rapid fire speech: "You wake Daddy? Daddy you wake? You wake Daddy? Daddy you wake?". Rather than launching me out the nearest window, the man channeled his inner Gandhi and exuded patience as he told me what number the big hand had to be on and what number the little hand had to be on before I could wake him again (man parents have it so easy today with all their digital clocks, cell phones, espresso makers...). He would also tell me that I had to wait in my own room.
HAH!
That would last about all of 30 seconds and then the slow migration out of bed, past my sister's bed, through the door, into the hallway, around the corner, edge toward his doorway...
"Back in your own room Tara".
Hey - how did you do that with your eyes closed? Of course I did finally learn that trick myself shortly after Little Man started walking.
Anyway, the appointed time would arrive and I would launch for a second time. He would forgo his inner Gandhi at this point and just roll his eyes back in his head. That would send me screaming.
As he headed for the bathroom, I went after my brother and sister. Now it isn't that they weren't excited to see what Santa brought them. They were. Unfortunately for me though, it was more exciting to torment me. You see, we weren't allowed to go downstairs until everyone was ready. We had to go as a family. I know 16-year old girls who got ready faster than the those two. By that time they were ready, I had worn a hole in the top stair with my jumping up and down. I had paced in my room earlier but a few of the floor boards wore through. It's hard to pace when you have to jump a hole every other plank.
So now comes the time where my son is finally of an age where he grasps the concept of Santa bringing him presents - but only if he is good. Oh yes, that threat was used a LOT the last several months. At one point, John pulled out his cell and actually called Santa. Thankfully he managed to hang up before Little Man reached for the phone. Actually - there's a great business to start. What parent wouldn't pay to be able to call up the Big Man and have him explain to him that he isn't getting that train/car/gun/exploding poop bag unless he does exactly what Mom/Dad say right away. But I digress.
So we survive Christmas Eve and Little Man went to sleep relatively well and quick. Of course he ends up in our room sometime in the wee hours but I didn't argue. It couldn't be that soon before we would all be up anyway - it was around 4 AM and I expected him to be wide awake within the hour. Ya know, The Parent's Curse, payback, Dad's ultimate revenge, all is fair in love and parenthood, Murphy's Law... pick one.
Instead I was the one who was wide awake. I lay in my bed at 4 AM and listened to both my husband and son snore peacefully away. Around 4:30 I lost hope of falling back to sleep and resorted to staring at my son, willing him awake. In my head I'm screaming "how can you sleep? Don't you know it's Christmas! OMG Child - PRESENTS! What is wrong with you?"
I finally fell back to sleep sometime after 6 AM and awoke a little after 8 AM. I awoke not because my son was jumping up and down begging to go downstairs but because my PJs were wet. I thought I was having my first hot flash until I realized the sheet was soaked and Little Man was lying next to me. Aw man. Merry Freaking Christmas to me.
"Everyone UP! NOW!"
Little Man did not appreciate that one and tries to burrow under my pillow as I'm stripping his soaking wet pajama bottoms off of him. Not a great way to wake up so the tears start flowing. I'm trying to apologize for the rude wake up call and let him know it is all OK. It can all be fixed. I get John to take him into his bathroom while I strip the bed and find new PJs for myself.
Never let this kid sleep past 7 AM without a trip to the bathroom.
And never apologize to a child who is more than half-asleep.
He and John return. John is trying very hard not to laugh. Little Man looks like he is about to start a lecture.
I'm not allowed to drink before bedtime anymore and I owe him an apology.
What? What do you mean I can't drink before bedtime? Where is this coming from?
"You pee the bed mommy. You got me all wet. You can't drink before bedtime anymore until you learn".
And that was only the beginning of our Christmas holiday....
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