Christmas Eve

It seems to me that now having children, the whole Christmas season has taken new form and purpose. I have such magical memories of each Christmas of my childhood and so does Derek. The year Santa brought Derek and his brother bicycles, he rode them through the soot and left tracks out of the fire place to the tree. Magic. It is real. I remember the year Santa made, MADE a three story victorian doll house with shingles, velvet carpet, working lights, dishes, silver, a leather couch, a grandfather clock, a claw foot tub... even porcelain pigeons on the rooftop. And, the year Santa delivered the iron baby bed with china dolls nestled in eyelet lace gowns with ribbons and bonnets. These babies were hand made to look as my sister, Sarah, and I looked as tiny babies. Mine even had tiny tears. There is an energy that exists and grows through the season. It is magic and it is from love. It is from the thoughtfulness of a gift and the enduring love that delivers it.

Even more than Christmas morning, itself, I love Christmas Eve. I love knowing that my babies are about to burst with the anticipation and promise of what will appear underneath the tree. I remember very well this feeling. What absolute joy. And it is contagious, you know. After wrapping the final gift and placing it under the tree. Derek and I sat together on the couch and he said, "You know what I remember? I would wake up in the early hours of the morning when it was really still night and peek out of my bedroom to see if Santa had come. And it was dark and I could see that something was there and something was different, but I couldn't tell what it was and my imagination would run wild until sunrise." We turned off the lights and sat by the tree together in the dark and watched it snow and told each other stories about Christmas. And, I felt like a kid again. I felt the magic. And while watching it snow I knew this would be another Christmas I would always remember.