Christmas Morning Torment

To the casual observer, my childhood and upbringing could appear pretty idyllic.  A beautiful mother that we’re pretty sure June Cleaver was modeled after.  A handsome, airline pilot father.  The brick house made to fit a family with 5 kids thanks to an additional story added by Dad.  The large yard with fruit trees where Dad built us a treehouse.  Not to mention the adjacent pasture where (literal) ponies grazed.

But it wasn’t always rosy.  There were those moments of parental abuse that we hide deep in the closet with the other skeletons.  Like those Saturday mornings when Mom would vacuum as we were watching cartoons and we’d have to lift our feet while she pushed the Hoover past us.  It’s hard to imagine how we ever endured that mistreatment.  But the real torture occurred every Christmas morning.  While we were allowed to tear into what Santa had left us, regardless of what god-forsaken time we had gotten up, we had to wait until after breakfast before presents could be opened.  You want to know the longest period of time in a kid’s life?  It’s Christmas morning when one has to sit and wait while your mother prepares breakfast with no apparent sense of urgency.  As I said, pure torture.

Visions of Christmas Past, with unopened presents indicating that breakfast had not yet been served. Notice my “stink eye” and what appears to be the early signs of stress-induced lunacy in my little brother.

However, as I got older, I came to appreciate the enforced slow pace of those Christmas mornings.  For one thing, we were rewarded with Mom’s cinnamon rolls.  And, Christmas always lasted longer when we weren’t done with everything by 7:00 am.  Now, as an adult, I have to admit that I prefer breakfast before presents as well.

Happy (Holiday) Entertaining!