It's Christmas Day of 2009, two in the morning. 

I turn over and see my seventeen-year-old sister, sound asleep.  She always let me sleep in her bed on Christmas. I poke my older sister, but she doesn’t even stir.  I continue lightly poking her arm until I realize that this tactic is fruitless. I start to shake her shoulders as ten-year-old me grows more and more anxious by the second. She finally groans and turns to face me, her eyes still plastered shut. She makes a throaty noise so I know she’s listening. 

“Cmon Reagan, let’s go check!” I say, sitting up and getting ready pounce off of the bed.

“No Kie, I don’t feel like it. You go ahead without me,” She says, rolling back over and almost immediately falling back into a deep slumber. What is happening? We always go check to see if Santa came, every Christmas in the middle of the night. It’s a tradition. 

Part of my heart breaks as I leave the room without my partner in crime. I open the door as quietly as I can, although the door still creaks and squeaks (it is usually Reagan’s job to open it, she is a lot more skilled than I am). I tiptoe down the hallway, and suddenly my breath is taken away from me. Piles upon piles of shiny wrapped gifts fill our living room, the presents spilling out from the bottom of the tree, unable to be contained. 
My first instinct is to walk over to the ENORMOUS present that is standing tall next to the fireplace, unable to fit underneath the tree.  I cross my fingers and sneak my way over to it, hoping and hoping that it was my name on the present.  I physically cannot conceal my squeal of joy when I see it addressed “TO: KILEY. FROM: SANTA.” I clap my hands together and look up at my stocking to see it overflowing with wrapped mysteries and a reindeer Webkinz peeking out from the top.

I make my way to the kitchen where I see that the cookies I had left out the night before had been eaten with only a bite or two left.  The milk in the glass was all gone, and I assume Santa liked the food I left him.  All the carrots I left for his reindeer are gone as well.

I run back to bed, although I do not want to go back to sleep.  I wanted to start opening presents that minute!
But I realize everyone is asleep and ponder the fact that the faster I go back to bed, the faster Christmas morning (at a more reasonable hour) will come.

“Well, he came Reags,” I say as I climb back under the covers.  She doesn’t answer. I close my eyes and go to sleep, but when 6 am rolls around, I am unable to fall back asleep once more.  I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, tapping my fingers together and wondering when I can go wake up my parents.
The anticipation starts eating me alive and I only make it until 6:11.  I creep into my parents room and see them both fast asleep.  I lightly tap my mother “What?” she asks.

“Is it time?” I say. She sits up and looks at the clock, then immediately puts her head back down on the pillow.
“Can we wait until 7?” She says with a slight whine in her voice.

“I’ll give ya til 6:30.  See ya then!” I leave her room and plop myself down on the couch.  How on earth could they sleep on Christmas?

* * *

It’s Christmas of 2015, 6 in the morning.

“Kiley, Reagan!” My 4 year old sister bellows as she jumps onto our bed.  My older sister has moved to New York with her boyfriend, but when she’s home, we have to share a bed.

“Nooo,” we both groan, as I check my phone and see the absurdly early time.
“It’s too early Tay,” I say as I pull her into a tight hug, not letting her go.
She pushes away. “But Santa came! He came! He left presents and he ate the cookies and he drank the milk and-”

“Give us 5 minutes,” my older sister says as she puts her head face down into her pillow.
“Okay, but it better be a short 5 minutes missies!” Taylor says as she runs back into the living room, singing.
“Why would you say that?! We could have just gone back to sleep!” I shout, angry that my older sister agreed to us getting out of bed.

“We have to get up eventually,” she says, and we quickly become quiet as we try to enjoy these last 5 minutes of sleep.

I miss Christmas as a child: the anticipation of wondering what Santa brought you this year and the joy and excitement of opening presents to find the toys you wanted.

As I grow older, this element of surprise disappears. My grandma and mother take me shopping and let me pick out clothes that I like.  Then, they take them and wrap them, placing them under the tree so I have things to open on Christmas morning.  I suppose that’s why I want to stay in bed; there is no more wondering about what I got, I know exactly what is waiting for me under the tree.

I still do get some surprises, though they aren’t as exciting as they used to be.  Instead of my Christmas list consisting of pages upon pages of toys I want and numerous Toys R Us catalogs filled with circles around things that I feel as if I will die without, I have a brief list with more expensive things I desire, including specific links to what I want with the size I know I need.  I used to want to jump off of a cliff if I got clothes for Christmas, but now it’s pretty much all I get.  I never really know if I am getting the expensive things I want - like some kind of new technology or a new Patriots jersey -  but it is one surprise as opposed to the hundreds that I experienced as a kid, as I used to wonder which of the 2000 toys that I asked for I will receive. This question has now turned into: wow, I wonder if I’ll get the one thing I asked for or not. 

Specific toys have turned into gift cards, allowing me to pick out what I want instead of my mom trying to pick something out for me and choosing something absolutely atrocious. I am forced to go return it for something that I will actually end up wearing or using.  But I miss counting down the days until Santa comes, and checking in the middle of the night to see if the guy with the bag has come down the chimney and left me numerous surprises.  Maybe I’ll get up and check this year, but it definitely will not be the same as it used to be.