This Is Always how I feel after Christmas Morning

It always starts with a few presents under the tree in early December.

 

At three years old I was burning with curiosity as to what was in the parcels under the tree. Even more so when I would discover that one of these said parcels had my name on it. (I knew how to spell and read my name a  very young age, along with a selection of other words under the tutelage of my older brother Jason.)

I would begin to pester my mother about the presents.

I knew I would have to be more crafty. I was very good at getting what I wanted, and knew that I too would conquer Christmas. It would be much like the incident in the pet store when I succeeded in bringing home Pattywack.

"Hey Mom! Hey! Hey! Mom! Momma! Mommy! Look! Look Outside! It snowed!"

I suppose it is imperative to the progression of the plot here to let the reader know that at this time my family lived in Long Beach, California.

My Mother would not be so easily fooled. She explained to me that Christmas was ALWAYS on the 25th of December, and not a day sooner. I would have to wait for Christmas morning for the opening of the Christmas gifts.

There would be one spark of hope however, I would be allowed to open one gift on Christmas Eve.

Alas, it was usually something totally boring like a pair of pajamas.

The long-awaited for Christmas morning would finally arrive and like a caged beast unleashed I would set upon the presents in a flurry of shredded paper, flying bows and snapping ribbons.

However, the present opening frenzy is shortly followed by:

I would sit in the center of my self-created chaotic mess, admiring all the new wonderful toys, but still feeling a lingering of:

After some time had passed, and I was resigned to the delight of present opening to be over, I would begin to play, leaving my momentary melancholia behind.

When suddenly:

"Clair Honey, you forgot one!"

Merry Christmas!!!