Written on Christmas Eve in my phone’s Notes app:
The wonder of putting ornaments on the tree. Barely waiting your turn to reach into the storage box, looking for something with a year and your own name on the back. Then looking toward mom with the wondrous, familiar questions: “Was this one mine?”, “Was that one for me?”, and “Did I make this one?”. Squeezing behind the limbs to make sure the magic of the special ones would be protected by the security of the backside of the tree. Where only the eyes of those who recognized and believed in their magic could behold them. Where I would gently reach out to touch them, imagining the marvelous life of the red dress Barbie, or picturing the wonderfully Suessian world from which the little lighted baby in her leaf carriage must have come.
The magic of reindeer hooves clicking on your rooftop, ready to fly down to eat the candy canes you graciously crushed and scattered just for them. How amazing it is that such fantastic, awesome animals could patiently and cheerfully wait while their boss slides down the chimney to meticulously deposit our gifts.