It's Back.

Abby's Christmas Crack disorder.
This disease left me in tears at 11:45 pm last night, after the umpteenth attempt at getting her to bed failed miserably.

She can't help it.
The gingerbread house-making, tree-decorating, Santa-emailing, and surprise Santa visit left with too much "stuff" for her little tiny 8 year old body and brain to process properly.

Yesterday, during church we were given an opportunity to think and write about our Christmas childhood memories.
Mine are bittersweet.
Not because my Christmas's weren't awesome, because they were.
But, because I never allowed myself an opportunity to really show how I felt.
I guess I was born too old for that.

It felt warm and breezy, and there was no need for a coat.

The drive to the beach wasn't far.

I didn't know then how deeply the salty air and the white foam crashing waves could permeate and soothe my exhausting thoughts.

We drove home, past the red and green adorned palm trees and short-sleeved Santa's, after spending Christmas Eve celebrating with our new found family composed of great friends who were also missing extended loved ones.

My eyes kept darting upwards in hopes of seeing Rudolph's nose lighting the sky.

I truly believed.

I had logically come to the conclusion that there was no way my parents could possibly afford to get all the presents that were brought beneath our tree Christmas morning.
 It just wasn't financially possible.
It left me no choice but to believe.

I had a very concise and organized list, as usual.  I knew what I wanted, and truly knew I would get it. It was a luxury, that now grown, I clearly understand.

This  year, I wanted a Cornsilk Cabbage Patch doll.

The hair was long and fell past her shoulders, not made of yarn like the previous Cabbage Patch dolls. 

I could actually brush the hair of this doll.

I'm fairly certain my list that year also included a tee-shirt made and spun with puffy paint at the mall, and few unit belt outfits.  There was this girl who went to my church, a few years older than me, and she always wore unit belt outfits - I thought she was so pretty.

My dad read from Luke and my sisters and I left homemade sugar cookies and milk out for Santa.
Santa always wrote a note in handwriting eerily similar (though never questioned) to my mom's, telling us how good we had been that year.  I always felt I had deserved that note, but often wondered about the reasoning behind its' meaning for my sister.

I anxiously attempted to fall asleep in my Strawberry Shortcake canopy bed. I had been warned that Santa did not come until we were completely asleep...and I really wanted him to come.  As I struggled to tire, I heard the bustling of packages and rustling of wrapping paper outside my closed door and downstairs in the living room where our Christmas tree stood. 

I knew he was there.

I awoke early that morning, before the sun.

Fearful of waking anyone else up, I glanced to the book on my nightstand and decided to read.

The Helen Keller Story.

I wept as I finished it.

As soon as the sun began peeking through my window blinds, I went next door to my sister's room and we gathered our parents.

He had come.

My doll had gorgeous auburn flowing hair and green eyes.

I politely said, "Thank you. I love it," as I did after every single gift was given.

It felt magical.

I was eight that Christmas.
Just like Abby.

The return of her Christmas Crack disorder may propel me in age me five years and leave me in tears, but I really think it is okay.
She, gratefully, got a few strands of her Dad's DNA and allows herself the opportunity of not only feeling, but showing the excitement that has no choice but to radiate from her pores during this season.

She has perfected the balance of advanced wisdom and crazy psychotic joy, and I am happy to revel in it for the first time through her eyes.

It feels magical.
Even when I am too tired to walk.