Christmas time is here...

This year has been the hardest ever for me, as far as homesickness goes. I've broken down in tears more than once--a very strange occurrence for me, seeing as how I'm usually the stalwart sister. But I've broken down in tears about stupider things since I got married anyway. It's nice knowing I don't have to be the strong one anymore!
I'm sure the majority of the homesickness is caused by the fact that I know I won't be home for Christmas. I've never been away from my immediate family on Christmas before, and even though I'll see them two days later, the thought of not participating in all of our traditions is almost overwhelmingly sad.
It all starts with Christmas Eve morning. No one gets up particularly early, except for mom who usually can't stay in bed with all of the things on her to do list nagging at her. Eventually, though, the whole family is awake and either Molly or I turn on the Christmas music. We're talking something energetic to get everyone going, like Doc Severinson and the Tonight Show Orchestra. The fire is already going in the fireplace (that's all my family uses for heat in the winter, anyway) and the Christmas music brings the most wonderful feeling into the air. As soon as everyone has gotten in my mom's way at some point (which is really easy, as she spends a lot of the day in the kitchen) she finally asks us if we could do this, or that to help clean the house. I usually get to clean one of the upstairs bathrooms, while Lizzy gets the smallest bathroom downstairs (little stinker...) Then we set ourselves to vacuuming, sweeping, keeping the dog outside or the kids upstairs, emptying the dishwasher so there's room for that evening, etc.
Then, at about four o'clock, something transforms the house. The anticipation reaches a peak, and we have to turn on some mellower music to keep a sense of calm about the house. We can all put our presents under the tree now, but as soon as they're there they cannot be touched again until the next morning. The kinder are all scrambling around as much as they can to see who each present is going to, without touching them. Maggie comes running into the kitchen and says "The biggesht preshent ish for ME! Cam-er-on didn't get one big ash mine!" or Doodie will come right up beside me and say "Emile, that one behind the trunk is for you. I got it at the school store. But I won't tell you what it is. But don't forget about it, because it's behind the trunk, ok?"
Finally, my dad will come downstairs with one of his nicer plaid shirts tucked into his pleated khakis and brown loafers and gently remind the kinder that there are still things to be done, and not to worry about the presents for now.
Then, the dining-room table is set with all of G.G.'s china (which we've learned over the years has to be supplemented by other pieces of dishware...there just isn't enough for the whole family!) The food comes out of the oven and my dad dons an apron to proceed with carving. The potatoes and fruit salad are transferred to their serving bowsl. The little individual yorkshire puddings are carefully (and rather artfully) placed in the bread basket. Animal and Doodie fill G.G.'s beautiful crystal goblets with Martinelli's. The missionaries arrive, we've all changed into our sister's nicest khakis (heaven forbid we wear our own clothes!), and my dad asks someone to say a blessing.
Christmas is finally here, in all of its glorious splendor!
We line-up to serve ourselves in the kitchen (there's no room for all of the food on the table, what with such a huge crowd each Christmas) and then the procession heads into the dining room. A great confusion as to where everyone is sitting ensues, of course, and if you're not deeply involved in the seating it can be quite comical.
"Anna, that's Gramma's spot. You sit over here." "But I want to sit next to Molly." "Molly's here for a whole week, you can sit next to her some other time..."
"Liz, I already drank out of that glass, so it's my spot." "Well then trade me glasses, cus I want to sit on the end..."
"Doodie, you can't sit there. You're at the kinder table." "Again?!" (shuffling away with a pout until he sees that the kinder table has its very own bottle of Martinelli's.)
"Umm, Emile, can you move over here?" (Dad, gesturing that we shouldn't seat Elder So-and-so between two teenage girls.)
And so on until we're all finally settled. Dad asks someone to pass the gravy. Someone has already finished their first glass of sparkling cider and wants some more. I ask for the yorkshire pudding to be passed (a request I repeat a few more times throughout the meal...) Etc.
And when Molly and Grampa have both helped themselves to more fruit salad than anyone else combined...And I've devoured the last yorkshire pudding...and the candles have had to be extinguished because they've come dangerously close to dripping on the tablecloth...
Gramma starts the symphony. She dips her finger into her water, places it on the top of her goblet, and round and round her finger goes. It starts with the faintest pinging at first, which then grows louder and louder as we all join in. It takes Doodie a minute or two to figure out exactly how to do it--with Maggie schooling him as if she's an expert--but we finally have a full "symphony."
The food is gone from everyone's plates, but before we all get up someone reminds us--as if we need reminding--that mom used to be able to recite the whole "Night before Christmas" poem. Can she still do it?
Someone runs to get the book, just in case she needs a hint, and the recitation begins. She usually needs a little prompting at about the point where "dry leaves that before the wild hurrican fly," but beyond that she has everything under control. When she's done, a cheer rings out for her annual display, which signals the end of the dinner portion.
We all help to clear the table, and carefully move G.G.'s dishes into the kitchen sink. A little bit of tidying up takes place as leftovers are quickly put away and the main dishes are washed and stacked next to the sink while others are placed in the dishwasher.
Finally, its time for grab-bag. The rules are explained for the elders' sakes ("Oh, it's kind of like white elephants!" "No. It's better.") and the game ensues.
Anywhere from one to two hours later, after everyone has had a chance at the chocolate orange or the cordial cherries and the hot item of the year (which has ranged from a Backstreet Boys CD or a Duncan yo-yo to some Pampered Chef cooking utensils or Harry Potter Legos) has been stolen countless times, the game ends and everyone trades their treasures.
To bring the mood down a bit from a raucous, rambunctious state my dad will calmly remind us that "as fun as the grab-bag is, and as big as the presents are under the tree" (Maggie smiles greedily) there is a more important meaning of Christmas. We all settle down, then, as Dad reads the Christmas story from the Book of Luke.
The spirit is strong and undeniable at that point. We silently sit and enjoy the warmth that envelopes us for a few moments before Dad asks us to kneel for family prayer. Gramma and Grampa mention something about being old, but because its Christmas they'll still kneel. Then, someone offers a prayer that may seem nothing special to anyone else, but because its Christmas it echoes in our hearts and stays with us for what seems like forever. Then, we all say goodnight to the missionaries as they leave.
"Hey, has anyone checked Norad lately?" Norad, the Santa Tracker, is hastily pulled up on the computer and we all learn that *gasp* he's in North America! We all need to get to bed immediately so that he doesn't skip our house! After quick changes into pajamas, and claiming spots on Lizzy's bedroom floor (Al of the kids sleep in the same room on Christmas Eve, and Lizzy just happens to have to the biggest room) we all settle down for at least an hour of giggling and the occasional "Guys, go to sleep!"
Then, just as we're all getting sleepy and are ready to stop talking, we hear it: Bells. Outside the window. It's Santa! The reindeer bells (which sound remarkably similar to camel bells...) ring out once more and Maggie jumps up, "Guysh! I'm sherioush! We all need to go to shleep!" Finally, we all know Santa is quite near and that we all must go to sleep, otherwise he'll skip our house.
The next morning we all awake at the crack of dawn to the sound of a cell phone alarm. It takes some time to get Doodie and Maggie moving, but the rest of us (strangely, the older of us) do our best to get everyone up. Molly will quietly go into my parents room and tell them we're all awake, but they send her back out. She breaks the news to all of us--Doodie and Mags are awake and anxious by now--"They don't think Santa came. They said we were up too late."
"No way!" "They just don't want to get up!" "Yeah, right! Jump on their bed!"
The little ones lead the way into my parents room, turning on lights and hopping on the bed until Mom and Dad have no choice but to get up. Mom has to brush her hair and wash her face before we go downstairs, but Dad shuffles down to see if Santa came.
"Whoa! You guys! Look at this!" Duh, we can't. We aren't allowed downstairs until Mom is down and has taken the most unflattering picture of the year: Us, lined up on the stairs, with sleepers in our eyes and really bad hair.
Maggie is close to wetting herself with anticipation. The same can be said of Boomer, who has to be let outside. Molly is shivering and just wants to get next to the fire and warm up. Finally, Dad lets us come downstairs.
A great ooh and aah sound out as we come around the corner and see our stuffed stockings and presents. Santa is too good to us (well, a lot better than he was when I was little...) and everyone is excited.
Maggie can read this year, so she gets to pass out the presents under the tree, reading each person's name as she hands the gifts over. Once they're all distributed, we can open the presents--one by one, person by person, youngest to oldest. (Maggie's "biggesht preshent" isn't as exciting as she thought it would be, reminding us all that the best gifts come in small packages.)
Boomer is finally let back into the house, after all of the wrapping paper has been collected, and her new pig ear is ready for devouring. Mom shuffles into the kitchen to pull out the coffee cake she made the night before (hmm...who did you say was up late?) and Dad sets himself to making scrambled eggs.

Oh, how I am going to miss all of that this year. There are some things about Christmas that are so predictable, and so cherished. I can't explain the affinity I have for the expected, but its strong.
But, although I've been homesick lately, I recently made a decision. I'm going to grow up, cope, and create my own traditions (with a few of my family's thrown in). By the time we have kids, Daniel is going to be sick of my traditions, but I don't care. I've started a countdown chain (you know, cut off a link each day you get closer to Christmas...) and have hung paper snowflakes and mini candy canes from the ceiling. We're not going to bed Christmas Eve until we've read the real Christmas story. And I'm going to make coffee cake for Christmas morning, and I'll be darned if we don't have scrambled eggs with it.
So even though we won't have many gifts under our tree (which we are going to cut off the mountain this weekend, by the way), and we won't have any mini yorkshire pudding, Christmas will be special. Christmas will be wonderful. Christmas will be the same. I can't wait.