Sharing today from my personal blog.

Mom and Dad, 1967

We always opened our presents on Christmas Eve night. You see, we were such good kids that Santa rewarded us by dropping our gifts off early – except he dropped them by so early that for nearly the whole month of December they sat under our tree, taunting and torturing us, begging to be opened.

We gathered around our tree, Bing Crosby’s Christmas vinyl spinning in the background, and my mother grabbed package after package, distributing them in order of youngest to oldest, oldest to youngest, until the tree was left empty and a mountain of unidentified goods surrounded each of us. We didn’t open them one by one, to admire what everyone received. There would be plenty of time for that later. No, we tore into our gifts at the same time, like savages, to see what stuff we could add to the collective stuff we already had.  This was our Christmas tradition and remained so until we all grew, reproduced, and began to draw names for Christmas instead.

One Christmas strayed from the holiday norm. It was the Christmas that came during my year of first grade. It was the year my Nan had passed on, creating the bizarre and surreal atmosphere that comes when loved ones are left behind to forge forward during their first holiday amid grief, loss, acceptance and sadness.

We had a poodle named Fluffy. Fluffy had become a mother for the first time that I could remember, but I was six and up until that point, my memories were infused only with the things important to a tomboy: climbing trees, sneaking into the hidden graveyard ACROSS the highway which was I was forbidden to cross and hiding out in the sand pit when I promised to run far away.  Fluffy and her newly acquired brood were housed in our basement, away from the noise that tends to happen in a home of four children with two parents working outside its confines.

“Tootsie, I hear the puppies crying. Will you go check on them?” my mother asked, annoying me that I had to leave the holiday distribution of material goods to go check on the silly dog and her silly puppies.

I got up, trudged down to the basement, listened carefully and heard no crying. I quickly ran up the stairs, not wanting to miss a single moment of holiday goodness. (Read: Greedy Gift Grabbing)

“They weren’t crying,” I declared, taking my seat and waiting to see which package was to be added to my growing pile.

Mom continued on, distributing gifts, and again with the puppies.

“Tootsie, are you sure? I hear the puppies again! Go check.”

“Mom, I was just there and..”

“Go check!” she interrupted me.

I got up again and again trudged down the stairs to find silence once more.

Up I went, settling down once more.

“Mom, they are still fine,” I told her, trying to balance the right amount of annoyance so that it would not be misconceived as brattiness – being the youngest, I was attempting to break the spoiled stereotype.

A few more gifts were passed out. My mother stopped.

“I hear the puppies again. This time I will go with you, Tootsie,” my mother said.

I wondered if my brothers and sister were growing as annoyed as I was or if being able to sit in their mountain of goods took the edge off the annoyance, as they  were enveloped by the anticipation of ripping open the wrapping paper covered in Santas and poinsettias and christmas lights.

My mom held my hand as we went down the stairs. We walked into the basement, to the destination of my two previous trips, and in the middle of the floor was a playhouse. I looked at her, excited.

“How did this get here?”

“It’s been down here the whole time. Santa brought it last night.”

“How did I miss it?”

“I don’t know!”

We ran back up the stairs, this time excitement replaced the annoyance I had felt after my two previous trips.

“Guess what? Guess what?” I said, not really believing yet that I had my very own play house!

“She was too excited to open presents that she did not see it standing in the middle of the room,” my mother said to my father, giggling,  loud enough for us to all hear.

“Ok. Open presents!” my father bellowed in is cranky, old man way.

That was the signal we needed and soon the room was filled with the sounds of paper ripping and children gasping with oohs and ahhs. This was the soundtrack to our family Christmas.

“Look, a tea set!”

“Look, dishes!”

“Look, fake food!”

I realized the reason why we were held off from devouring the gifts in front of us was because all of my gifts, except the obligatory socks and underwear, went along with my playhouse.

This is my favorite memory of Christmas, the place I go when I think of Christmases past.

Both my parents have moved on from this world to the next, this Christmas being the first without them both here, trying to celebrate it in the surreal world between grief and sadness and acceptance and loss. I think back to this Christmas, and through the tears that fall off my cheeks from missing them and the innocence that once was, am thankful to have this one memory that will last forever, like a Kodak picture burnt into my mind.

From NOLA Femmes to Y’all, Merry Christmas! We hope it is one filled with life, laughter, love and memory-making moments!