When we were little, Dad came up with an idea to slow the pace of Christmas morning. We could open our stockings as soon as we woke up. But, before we could open gifts, Debbie and I were in charge of making breakfast. (Mom’s contribution to Christmas morning management was to allow us to open one gift on Christmas Eve. She selected the gift, which was always new nighties or pajamas so we would look cute for our Christmas morning pictures.)

We were young, and short!, when we started the Christmas breakfast tradition. So young that pouring milk on cereal was a two-person op. Debbie stood on a chair and “aimed” the flow of milk out of the corner of the rectangular gallon pitcher, while I lifted from the bottom, crouching down below counter height to get enough leverage.

I can only imagine how our soprano voices sounded from our parents’ room. “Are you ready?” “Yes, don’t forget to tell me when to stop.” “I won’t.” “Do you want to pour?” “No, you can.” (Ever since I’d burned myself badly after trading bathtub positions and turning the hot on rather than off, I was happy to let Debbie be the brains of our joint operations.)

Before we poured the milk, we’d set the table, with placemats, folded napkins under the fork on the left and knife and spoon on the right. The bottom of each piece of silverware would have been equidistant from the bottom of the placemat.

“Mommy and Daddy, breakfast is ready!”