My husband is crazy. He's a little kid in an overgrown body. I remember the first Christmas we spent together when we were dating. He insisted we sleep in the living of his parents' home in stead of in beds like normal people. Tradition means a lot to him.
Now we have children of our own. (Little kids. . .aged 1 and 2. . .who don't yet understand the magic and excitement of Christmas.) They don't know about Santa, they have a nativity set and have been carrying around baby Jesus and "the Mommy Mary," but it will be a while before they start to process everything.
"Its our last year of freedom," I've told people frequently this week. Our children don't know what to expect, so luckily, we can't let them down. We asked Santa Claus to come a night early due to our family Christmas schedule. Basically, I saw it as a chance to not have to wrap all of their presents, even though they are few in number. I figured we didn't need to go overboard, since they don't "get it." Earlier this week I rolled over to find my husband wide awake. He then informed me that he was stressed, trying to figure out how to do Santa gifts, what our travel schedule would be like, and how to get the house "extra" clean for his family who would be getting together here. I rolled my eyes, rolled over, and certainly uttered something under my breath about how nice it was to not have to worry about anything significant.
Last night I couldn't sleep. We had a family gathering, I had a quick work task, and then we were up really late, cleaning up, and making sure that Santa made it to the right address on his express route. I was up super early (even though I was counting on sleeping in; I never get to sleep in.) I found myself creeping downstairs, the rest of my family dead asleep in their respective beds. I looked over everything Santa left, realigning the stockings and making sure everything was just right. I made sure the Christmas lights were on, made breakfast and put timers on everything so that it would all be ready at the same time. I changed up the menu to include Becki's baked oatmeal because Logan loves oatmeal. I mixed up the eggs for French toast because Dale loves French toast. I checked the baby monitor continuously so I wouldn't miss it when the kids so much as stirred, made sure the camera was primed and ready at the bottom of the stairs, and brewed a special pot of flavored coffee.
Today will be anything but ordinary. We'll hang out in our pajamas. We'll eat special breakfast. The kids will unwrap a few gifts that we very carefully selected for them. We'll read the same books dozens of times, assuredly. Seems like a lot of work for our last year of "freedom" since our kids have no idea what to expect. We'll dress the kids in new shoes and new clothes (that they might not wear more than once) and we'll go to church to celebrate the miracle of our Savior's birth. I'll probably cry when the hymns are sung and turn white-knuckled as I hold my wriggling toddler a little closer, and if nothing else the kids will know that they are loved.
As I sit here with my hot cup of coffee and listen to my children run toy cars across the floor and cook breakfast in their new "kitchen" I guess it all goes to show two things:
-The magic of Christmas can consume this task-oriented, practical, sarcastic lady, even catching her off guard, and
-My husband married a crazy woman.

We wish you and your loved ones a very Merry Christmas. May you be richly blessed, as we have been, in the new year.