Woken at 7.00am.
No, not by excited little boys. But by an excited, interstate grandparent who wanted to be in on the action.
“Late night, kids asleep. Ring later.” Actually, come to think of it, I was still asleep too. Grrrr
8.00am, got woken by one excited little boy. “Can we open the presents now?”. Not that he’d actually been to check that there were any. Suggested that this perhaps might have been a good idea.
Walked past younger sons bedroom quietly, to find Godzilla emerging. Quick glance at over-stuffed Santa Sack (thank you very much Godmother for purchasing a “sack” and not a bloody sock).
I awaited with anticipation for something cute or profound (or both) to come out of his mouth. After all, it was the first Christmas that he really got – you know, understood about the joy and giving and sharing (“where’s more present for me!!”).
“I need do wee, Mama. Then you can give me a sticker.”
Right, ok then.
Sat down for present opening. Video tape ran out. No new tape. Nevermind.
Made complete mess of loungeroom, spent four hours putting together a Lego train before heading off to in-laws for Christmas dinner.
And the joy and sharing and handing out of presents.
“Want more present for me!!!!”
The post-feast fatigue.
“Want more present for me!!!!!!”
And the end of celebration tantrums.
“Want DAT present for me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
And the kids were even worse.