“Go to bed kids! I don’t want to see any of you until the morning!” said my mother excitedly.
We had just finished our annual Christmas play, put on by all of us siblings. I was the producer, director, and I even acted in it. After many years of doing the same play, you’d think we could execute it perfectly. However, that was certainly not the case…at least not with a hyper, rambunctious, 6 year old brother in the house. He always managed to add his own “comedic” lines to the script. Still, as long as we finished the play with baby Jesus (aka my youngest baby sibling) in the manger and the wise men bowing before him, it was a success in my mind.
As my sister and I lay in our beds staring up at the Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling, we talked of the play and the presents we hoped to get in the morning.
“Aren’t you glad I convinced you to be Mary again this year Chelle?” I said patronizingly. She had wanted to steal my part as the Angel. It was my part since my mom taught us to act out the story when I was six. Obviously, I could not let that happen. “Yeah, I guess.” she said. “Do you think Mom and Dad will get us a golf cart this year?” We asked for one ever since we moved from the city to the country. All the neighbor kids were driving around in their golf carts while we were riding bikes. So not cool.
Suddenly a whiney voice interrupted our discussion, “but Mooooooommmmmmm, I have to gooooo peeeeee! Can I cooooome ooooout?” Of course it was none other than the fourth child, Luke. He was always getting into trouble, or candy…but mostly trouble.
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