I suspect it has little to do with angels or wise men or frankincense or lowing cattle, but a miracle of holy proportions was visited upon us this morning. The babies did not rouse us until 8:53am, a full 97 minutes past the average hour at which we are usually jolted from unconscious bliss by some combination of tears, howls, or bleeps from this or that electronic toy.

We were so astonished to rise and see the clock that we checked to make sure that it was not broken. The irony of the great sleep-in happening on Christmas morning is doubly astonishing. What can it mean that our children chose the morning on which children usually rise the earliest to do the improbable? Do they, perhaps, love us so much that they wanted to give us a great gift on this day? Or have we fallen short in our parental duties to instill a firm understanding of Santa Claus in all his infinite majesty?

In any case, we’re up now and on to the good stuff. Egg nog, stockings, piles of colored paper on the floor.

I love this part where so much yet remains unwrapped. A few hours from now, the tree will have surrendered all its mystery, and Christmas as I love it best it will have slipped away for yet another year.

Regardless, though, I will be rested, come what may. Thank you, Alden. Thank you, Kato.

Merry Christmas, everyone.