They don’t say anything else, and even though I didn’t think it would be possible, it’s not long before I drift back off to sleep.
Charlie, Olivia, and I part ways with Wes in Nonna’s front yard about an hour before sunrise. I wanted to hug him and thank him for driving us home, but after the awkward conversation I overheard in the car, I didn’t trust myself to get near him. I settled for a wave from the driveway.
The three of us tiptoe quietly inside the back door and come to a dead stop when we see Nonna standing at the kitchen counter, baking ingredients spread out in front of her.
“How are they doing?” she asks.
We all start talking over each other, each with a different excuse, but Nonna just shakes her head.
I look at her with what I hope is reassurance. “Anna is so tiny. And so, so beautiful. But those tubes and wires look worse in person. Margot seems good but really tired and sore.”
Nonna starts cracking eggs in a bowl. “I’m feeling full of Christmas spirit, so I’m going to be happy you all made it home in one piece and send you off to bed. You can find a few blow-up mattresses in the game room. But I expect you to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when it’s time to line up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” we all mutter, then silently trudge upstairs to the game room in the attic. There are several bunk beds positioned around the large room, all of which are already taken. Christmas Eve is the one night everyone in my family tries to sleep under one roof so that we’re all together when we open gifts. The larger our family has gotten, though, the harder it has become.
We each pull a mattress from the pile Nonna keeps on the shelf in the corner. While Charlie pulls out the electric pump to blow them up, Olivia and I hunt down some blankets and pillows. I’m out the second I lie down.
When my little cousins come screeching through the room to wake us up two hours later, I feel like I’ve only slept for five minutes. It’s going to be a long day.
There are cinnamon rolls and blueberry muffins and coffee cake spread across the counter when Olivia and I squeeze into an open spot at the bar, pouring coffee down our throats and trying to wake up. The mood is chaotic. The littles are running around, their sticky fingers touching everything and everyone they pass while my aunts and uncles mill around the kitchen. Everyone looks ridiculous in our matching Christmas pajamas. Nonna finds a design she likes sometime in August and every group is responsible for each member of their family. Olivia and I only remembered to throw ours on just before we came downstairs.
This year’s theme is Santa on skis against a light blue background. Most of my aunts are wearing the long nightgown version while the uncles got pj bottoms and tops. Olivia and I are wearing sleep shorts with the T-shirt. The worst was the year she picked the onesies that made us all look like reindeer, including a hood with antlers attached. There are more than a few members of our family who shouldneverwear onesies.
Once breakfast is done, it’s time for our next Christmas-morning tradition.
Last night, just like every other Christmas Eve, each branch picked their spot in the family room and stacked their gifts into small piles. Once the gifts were sectioned off, and notes and milk and cookies were left for Santa, the door to the family room was shut until morning.
Here’s where the brutal part comes in: No one is allowed in the room on Christmas morning until Nonna has two cups of coffee. And she drinks them slowly. So right now, all of the kids under the age of ten, lined up from youngest to oldest, are melting down in the hallway.
Olivia and I have moved to the table next to Nonna, where she’s sipping her coffee. Charlie still hasn’t gotten up, even though Uncle Charles keeps yelling his name from the bottom of the stairs.
“Is this decaf?” Aunt Patrice asks. She chose the pj’s that look like thermal underwear, and they leave nothing to the imagination. It was a bad choice.
“Heavens to Betsy, why would we make a pot of decaf?” Aunt Maggie Mae answers. Aunt Maggie Mae is dressed in black slacks and a green sweater—she’ll wear the pj’s to bed but refuses to stay in them—and her hair and makeup are perfect. She brings the Evil Joes each a cup at the other end of the table, where they’re sitting with their noses buried in their phones.
“We’re going to have to start renting out the banquet room of the Hilton, Nonna,” Olivia says. There’s not one inch of space in this kitchen that isn’t occupied with a human body.
“Oh, there’s plenty of room,” Nonna says, loving every minute of this.
Uncle Michael, who just walked down the stairs, makes a production of inching the door to the family room open and squeezing his head through the tight space. He stays like this for a few seconds, then pulls his head out and shuts the door. His eyes are wide and the kids are frozen in their spots, staring at him.
Here we go. The torture.
“Someone got a bike!” he yells, and the kids shriek.
Nonna rolls her eyes and takes another small sip from her cup, but she loves this part, too. I can remember when Charlie, Olivia, and I—along with the Evil Joes—were withering against the wall just like the little ones are now.
Not to be outdone, Jake says, “Pretty sure I saw a dollhouse in there. A pink one.”
The girls scream. Loudly.
My phone vibrates on the table and I flip it over to see a text from Margot.
MARGOT:What cup is she on?
I can’t help but laugh.
ME:Halfway through the second one. The littles are going nuts.
