The Quiet Before Christmas Morning

It is still dark outside as I write this. The kind of soft winter darkness that makes the whole house feel wrapped in a hush. The kids are still asleep, the tree lights are glowing faintly in the corner, and for a moment the world feels completely still.

I have been up since before 5 a.m., partly because I am still shaking off the tail end of RSV and partly because my body decided to greet Christmas morning with a migraine. Nothing dramatic, just enough to nudge me awake earlier than planned. But honestly, after this year, and after I do not mind. I am here, I am well enough, and the kids are healthy again after their own RSV run. That alone feels like a gift.

Any minute now I know I will hear the first little sounds from down the hall. The soft thump of feet, the rustle of blankets, the tiny voice calling Mama with that mix of sleepiness and excitement. And then the day will begin.

For now, though, I am savoring this quiet moment. This breath before the magic.

The Anticipation of Watching Them Open Gifts

There is something about Christmas morning as a parent that feels entirely different from anything I ever experienced as a child. Back then, the thrill was all about what I might find under the tree. Now, the thrill is about them. Their faces. Their joy. Their wonder.

This year, the big surprise is a wooden playhouse for the backyard. Sturdy and charming, the kind of thing that becomes the backdrop for a hundred childhood stories. Their uncle spent hours assembling it over the two days before Christmas Eve, tightening screws and adjusting panels with quiet dedication.

I can already picture the twins toddling in and out of it, carrying balls and trucks and whatever treasures they decide belong inside. And I can picture Lily turning it into a school or a bakery or a castle. She is at that age where imagination is endless and everything becomes a story.

Santa also brought little toys and candies for each of them. And of course, books. Because when I asked Lily what she wanted Santa to bring, she looked looked me in the eyes and said, Books and meatballs.

Books and meatballs!

I laughed so hard I nearly cried. Santa handled the books. Mama handled the meatballs.

Matching Stockings and Matching Pajamas

The kids and I have matching stockings and every year we get matching pajamas, which to me adds a sweetness to the season that I never get tired of. I love looking back at photos of us in our coordinated outfits, all of us tucked into the same soft colors and patterns. Seeing our stockings lined up together, cozy and intentional, feels like a little snapshot of the family we are becoming.

And on Christmas Eve, when we gather to open our gifts in those matching jammies, it becomes its own kind of magic. The pajamas turn the whole evening into a gentle ritual, a moment of togetherness before the excitement of Christmas morning takes over. It is simple and soft and exactly the kind of memory I hope they carry with them.

Lily’s First Year Truly Understanding Christmas

This is the first year Lily really understands Christmas. The first year she has been fully engaged with the idea of Santa, the anticipation of presents, the countdown. Watching her excitement build day by day has been one of the sweetest parts of the season.

I got her a Bluey advent calendar this year, where each day reveals a tiny paperback book. She loved it. Every night at bedtime she would run to the calendar, open the next door and show me the book and tell me what it was about based on the cover art.

There was something so tender about watching her delight in something so simple. No flashy toys, no screens, just a little book and a little ritual. It grounded the whole month. I think it might become a tradition.

The Twins’ Second Christmas

The twins do not understand any of this yet. They are not quite two. Their world is still made of the concrete and not the abstract. They do not know who Santa is, although they did both just learn to say “Santa” which is as adorable as you imagine it is.

But they are going to love the playhouse. And the balls. And the books. And Christmas dinner, which this year includes prime rib and my grandmother's dressing recipe.

In a couple of years they will catch up to their big sister, and we will all talk about what Santa might bring. They will count down the days with the same breathless excitement she has now. But this year, their wonder is simpler and more instinctive, rooted in discovery rather than expectation. There is a sweetness in that kind of wonder, and I want to hold onto it for as long as I can.

The Chaos of Two Christmases

This year ended up being a little unusual. We sort of had two Christmases, although not intentionally and it came about at the last minute.

Traditionally, we open presents on Christmas Eve. It is a ritual that goes back generations on my mother’s side. But this year, everything was a bit chaotic. Uncle had to work on Christmas Eve and did not get to the house until 5:30 that evening. Oak woke up on the 24th with pink eye again, so we spent part of the day at urgent care. I still had eggs to devil, lunch to prepare for 7 people, and the idea of trying to wrangle three small children into a calm Christmas Eve felt unrealistic.

I also did not want to reveal the playhouse in the dark. I wanted the kids to have time to enjoy it while they could see in the daylight. And I wanted to see their faces clearly when they saw it for the first time.

I talked it over with my mother, and at first, we both thought it was a ludicrous idea. Then the more we thought about it, the more sense it made.

So I made an executive decision. We would wait. We would do everything for the kids on Christmas Day.

The kids are too little to know the difference. To them, Christmas is whenever Mama says it is.

And it worked out beautifully.

The adults - Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle, and me, opened our grown up presents on Christmas Eve in a quiet, orderly fashion, just like the old days, after the children had been put in bed. No toddlers climbing on us, no bows being eaten, no toys being fought over. Just adults, sitting together, exchanging gifts, enjoying the moment.

And now, today, the kids get their turn. Their loud, joyful, chaotic turn. Their moment to tear into wrapping paper and squeal and run around and make memories I will remember forever.

The Weight of Gratitude

As I sit here in the dim morning light, listening to the house breathe, I feel so much gratitude.

Gratitude that the kids are healthy again after RSV swept through our home.

Gratitude that I am here, ready for the day ahead.

Gratitude for the magic of childhood, for the way it transforms ordinary moments into extraordinary ones.

Gratitude for the chance to witness my children’s joy, to be the one who creates these memories for them, to be the safe place they run to when they wake up on Christmas morning.

The Magic of the Morning to Come

Any minute now, the day will begin.

Lily will burst out of her room, hair wild, eyes bright, voice full of excitement. She will run to the tree, bouncing on her toes, asking if it is time, if she can open presents, if Santa came.

The twins will toddle behind her, confused but delighted, drawn in by the energy of their big sister. They will grab wrapping paper and shake boxes and squeal at the sight of new toys.

We will go outside to reveal the playhouse. I can already imagine Lily's gasp, the twins' wide eyed wonder, the way they will all rush toward it like it is the most magical thing they have ever seen.

Later we will eat prime rib and my grandmother's dressing, and the kids will smear it across their faces, and the house will be loud and messy and full of life. There will be toys everywhere, wrapping paper stuck to the cat, and at least one meltdown before bedtime.

But right now, in this quiet moment before the sun rises, I am holding onto the anticipation. The sweetness. The magic.

Christmas morning is about to begin. And I am so glad I am here to witness it.

And now, before the first little voice calls for me, I am going to make myself a cup of coffee and take a deep breath.