The Twelve Days of Christmas

Because it’s a two-blog-post kind of day.  And because it’s exactly 12 days until Christmas.

Every year on this day, I would rush out of bed (actually on time) and race down the stairs.  Under the tree would be a red bag (which I still have) with the words written in gold glitter glue “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” 

There were twelve things in it.  A tradition my grandparents started when I was too little to really remember and didn’t stop until I was nearly married.  Every day for twelve days I would find in the bag an assortment of  small boxes with a number on each one telling me which day to open it on.  I would shake them, rattle them, try to figure out what was inside, and often times I kinda admit would slit the tape on the box so carefully that it could be replaced and appear as if nothing was ever amiss.  However, Nana always put things in boxes she could find.  So the element of surprise was always there and I eventually gave up with the tape slitting thing.  Given the fact that it was never once successful.

I don’t remember what the gifts were.  Some were ornaments, some where special things that I still have.  But the gifts weren’t that important, in the long run.  The memories were.  And I’ll always hold dear to my heart the special things my grandparents have done for me.  Like letting me skate in the living room.  And stay up way too late.  And eat cookie dough with our fingers.  And laughter.  Lots and lots of laughter.