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Christmas is for the memories.  Christmas is for the anticipation.  Christmas, at least when you're the parent of two year olds, is not for the day, itself.

On Christmas Eve, I excitedly brought down my horribly wrapped presents and placed them carefully under the tree in the most eye-pleasing manner I could manage.  I stepped back to view my work, envisioning the happy day that was surely awaiting us.

We would wake up to joyous proclamations of Santa! and presents!  Carlos and I would come sleepily downstairs and fix some tea and toast while the babies unstuffed their stockings with care and precision, examining each calmly to get maximum enjoyment before moving onto the next.

Then we'd teach them how to tear the paper from their gifts under the tree, and they'd take turns coming up to us and showing us their new treasures.  They'd play with each before arranging them neatly in a corner and fetching their next present.  We'd put the paper in the bin right away, keeping things neat as we went along.  The day would be a utopia of calm peace and happiness.  What could go wrong?

Wait, what's that?  Tears on Christmas?  Amid piles of presents strewn carelessly about as the grubby paws reach for more, more, more, and quickly!  It cannot be.
 

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