So, my sisters were 10 and 11 years older than myself; my brother was only 5 years older so my brother and I still had the excitement of Christmas morning in us, and we just couldn’t sleep. We just couldn’t sleep! We would whisper to each other all night about what we think Santa would be bringing us. We would try to figure out what time it was, and if Santa had come yet. Of course when you’re a child time is incomprehensible and an hour feels like the whole night. It’s kind of like when you go camping, and it is so cold outside that you just know that morning HAS to be 15 minutes away but it isn’t.
After what we thought was the longest night of our lives my brother and I thought that Santa has surely come, and ever so quietly we got out of our sleeping bags and began the long, slow, quiet trip down our stairs.
Without any notice our parents were standing behind us with their arms folded in front of them. My brother and I looked at each other and then back to them. They were shaking their heads slowly, and then then did the unthinkable: they told us it was too early and to go back to bed.
Disbelief, disappointment, and heartbreak slumped our shoulders as we padded our way back upstairs. The cold we hadn’t noticed leaving our room was rapidly crawling up our jammy clad bodies as we returned. We climbed back into our sleeping bags with heavy hearts. Soon we were discussing what we thought we had seen as presents in the living room.
Of course we did fall asleep shortly after only to arise later (still early) to the wonder of Christmas. That memory is one of the special memories I have of my brother. I don’t remember what we ended up getting for Christmas that year but I adore the memory that was created by my parents who needed sleep, and my brother just wanting our presents.