December 25, 2002

Christmas morning cherished memories

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor

      Like Aunt Millie's fruitcake, Christmas day memories have a long-lasting shelf life.
      To this day, I remember jumping out of bed at 6 a.m. and tip-toeing down the hallway in my Oscar the Grouch footed pajamas to see what Santa had left behind. I also recall being told to contain my in excelsis deo for another hour. Of course that was last year; I've been working on my stealth stepping since September.
      Christmas morning is about being a kid, or at least acting like one. So don't bother brushing away bed head or sugar cookie crumbs from your bicuspids. Rip open that wrapping paper with unabashed glee. After all, you wouldn't wish someone a Mediocre Christmas or Half-hearted Holidays.
      As a kid, however, the days leading up to this joyous occasion were utter torture. While only a few presents made their presence known before Christmas, it was a thankless gift not knowing what resided inside that rectangle covered in E.T. wrapping paper. The unknown factor was especially hard on my sister - a bonafide present peaker.
      For what seemed like hours, we would pester our mother to PLEASE let us open a gift; the smallest one, the shortest one, even the one that no doubt held white tube socks. By Christmas Eve, our pathetic pleas had worn her down. With Solomonic wisdom, mom let us exchange the sibling gifts, knowing full well we had already disclosed their contents to each other.
      Like most things in life, the anticipation of Christmas morning consumed our thoughts for weeks. Then in a matter of minutes, the waiting was over. Roughly the same amount of time it took for "some assembly required" breakage to begin and "batteries not included" sobbing to start.
      Despite my painstaking clear penmanship, I would still find button-down dress shirts and Tuffskin jeans under the tree Christmas morning. I still can't fathom how Santa Claus confused Rock Em' Sock Em' Robots with a turtle neck sweater. Funny how an exercise bike from Sears could fit down our chimney no sweat, but not my seven-piece drum set.
      If only I had the ability to e-mail my requests to the North Pole that whole butterfly collar and pull ring zipper shirt fiasco could have been avoided.
      Unlike when I was 8 years old, this Christmas my wish list actually contained such pragmatic items as socks and thermal underwear. What once would have been pure present abomination is now highly prized. Of course my inner child demanded at least a token gift - hence the SpongeBob SquarePants bobblehead.
      This year I am especially giddy about the Christmas holiday. My joy stems from the fact that, just like St. Nick, I'm not going into work on December 26. I'm taking the ho-ho-whole week off. After all, being home for the holidays is what Christmas is all about.
      Admittedly, I never took full advantage of Christmas vacation as a child. Sure it was fun to stay home from school - without having to fake Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever - but after a few days the luster faded from even the shiniest toys. After all, how many times can an Evel Knievel action figure endure compound fractures while jumping Snake Canyon before the frivolity wears off?
      As an adult, I cherish the chance at extended Christmas cheer. A couple extra days of skiing, skating or just zzzing on the couch between college bowl games. Anything is better than sorting through mail or staring at the leftover office Christmas cookies - you know those bone dry powdery things everyone avoids like Trent Lott at a NAACP convention.
      While Christmas morning is about observing treasured memories, this year marks the end of one time-honored tradition: sleeping in.
      For nearly two decades, the Leiva clan has exchanged gifts on Christmas Eve. Although Ella might let us sleep in one more Christmas morning, next year our little alarm clock will have us sitting around the tree before sunrise. Hopefully Santa will line some of our stockings with caffeine candy canes.
      Although I don't wear footed pajamas and my tip-toeing technique is more creaky than sneaky, I haven't outgrown Christmas morning. Now it is my turn to pass down cherished memories and create new ones. Unlike Aunt Millie's fruitcake, no amount of bourbon is required to preserve this gift.
      Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com