It’s past my kids’ bedtime.
They have their screens upstairs, so I know they’re not asleep. Honestly, I don’t really care that they’re still awake. Justin is laying across the ottoman, his legs outstretched, his head resting on our wingback chair as he reads some articles on his phone. I’m wedged between our couch’s chaise and coffee table, the floor starting to feel really uncomfortable, as I finish the last few moments of the Gilmore Girls episode I’m watching.
Our youngest comes downstairs, his phone streaming funny YouTube videos, his arms cradling a bundle of white objects.
I watch him place his phone on the carpet and kneel in front of our lit and decorated Christmas tree. He gently sets the packages on the red-and-gold tablecloths acting as our tree skirt.
He and his brothers have been crafting treasures out of legos and wrapping them in crumpled up pieces of lined notebook paper. I’m pretty sure there isn’t a lick of tape to be found on them.
Yet placed under the tree next to the gifts in sparkly white, black, and gold wrapping paper that I adore and the three maroon gift bags, I know that the items inside the notebook paper were made with purpose, intention, and love.
These are the most precious gifts I’ll open on Christmas morning.