While the pitter patter of little feet is generally delightful, it’s not so delightful at 2:oo am on Christmas morning. (“2:02 am!” Sage would gleefully correct me when I told this story later that day.)
Sage was wise enough not to burst into our room–the kid can, after all, tell time, and he knows a parent-enragingly early hour when he sees it–but after almost two hours of restlessly pacing little feet, Paul and I cracked and descended with him into the basement so he could commence the frenzy of present opening.
He had an impressive haul, with large and expensive Lego sets a prominent feature. (Despite some occasionally questionable behavior on Sage’s part, Santa had been good to him this year.)
Paul and I watched the process in the weary hope that his frantic activity would tire Sage, but our hope was futile. He begged pathetically to stay downstairs and assemble his new treasures, so assemble he did.
Fortunately, Christmas Day featured some moments of non-commercial tranquility.
I went for a walk and enjoyed the cool, still morning air. Snow had come just in time for Christmas. It was parsimonious–just enough to cover the soggy dead brown that had reigned for weeks–but it was enough to render the landscape magical.
Later, we went to my dad and stepmom’s house for a continued Christmas celebration.
Despite the premature start to Christmas morning, I wouldn’t trade a second of it. A happy child, friendly horses, family bonding, and a timely snow…I got everything I wanted.