Childhood's finest moment

Two kids, in pajamas, sitting anxiously at the top of the stairs. Dad prepping the video camera. Mom, downstairs, oohing and ahhing about how he came. Santa Claus came.

Childhood boiled down to its finest moment.

"Come on down!"

Those three words paired Drew and me with the excellence that awaited us below, as if the announcer had just shouted "On your mark, get set, go!" to a team of Olympic sprinters.

It was this way every year growing up. 20 VHS tapes sit in a box in our playroom to prove it.

The moment was great because we got presents, yes. But it was also great because of all that happened before it. Really, Christmas at the Hardison's started way before December 25th at the top of the stairs. Our family was (and is) big on tradition. And by that I mean we were (and are) obsessed with doing everything the same year after year. (Our trips to Florida were no different.)

As I think back on Hardison Christmases, I recognize the single thread that so beautifully wove the season together year after year for all of us. And of course, it was Mom.

Every Christmas memory I have has something to do with her: the sugar cookies, Christmas Eve, Christmas morning, the presents, the Christmas tree, the ornaments. Oh, the ornaments. I'm going to need some moral support to open my boxes of ornaments this year.

This time of year, my mind is flooded with Christmas memories--the sights, the smells, the feelings--so vividly that I close my eyes and find myself at Heartley Drive, waiting by the window for headlights to announce the family's arrival for our annual Christmas Eve get-together. The previous month of fun and anticipation would culminate the next day, but that night, Christmas Eve, was the climax.

But before I get to that, I must reminisce about the season openers: the tree and the cookies and Santa Claus and so much more.

That's coming in the next few days.

Christmas 1985. Drew (6). Me (3)