Channing comes to check on us before we are awake.

Not to wake us exactly, but because he is so excited he cannot help himself. He just needs to see if it is time yet. He does this over and over, hovering at the edge of the morning, holding Christmas in his body.

The TV is on in the background, a Christmas movie playing softly. Thy always puts on A Christmas Story. It is familiar enough to fade in and out while the day begins.

I am sitting on the loveseat in front of my desk, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. Dixie has crept past Royce and climbed into my lap for love. The house is quiet, but charged. That hum of anticipation is everywhere.

When Channing was little, his excitement was impossible to miss. Christmas lived in him so loudly you could see it.

Now it is still there, just less visible. The vibration is quieter, more contained, but if you know him, you can sense it. Some things do not disappear. They just settle deeper.

Royce is already tearing wrapping paper and throwing it, more interested in the sound and the motion than the gift itself. He is inside the moment in the way only little kids can be.

Some of our ornaments come out every year. A few my mom bought for me when I was a kid. Hanging them feels like memory without heaviness. Comfort without sadness. A way to honor her without being miserable. A reminder that those Christmases existed, and that joy lived there too.

This Christmas does not feel like less.

It feels complete.

It is peaceful because it is just us. Because there is time. Because there is room for a few days of low demand fun. Being together, but separately.

Before the paper tears, before the noise rises, there is this moment.

And it might be my favorite part.

I hope today finds you joyful.

And for the moments that might feel heavy, I wish you gentleness, both from the world and with yourself.