Christmas Eve

"Santa doesn't come until the house is clean."



Well good, 'cause I cleaned it before I left this morning. I even made my bed. And while we're at it, I have no intention of opening a present on Christmas Eve this year. I am wearing the PJs I got last year. There is still some baking to be done. There is always some baking to be done. If you've ever spent time in my home or in my life, you will know that there is always baking that can be done. And baking that can be done, should be done.



This is just a sampler of Christmas Eve day in the Pratt household. I don't know that it will be that way anymore. But here's the routine:



Get up early, because Santa doesn't come until the house is clean.

Dad, can we open a Christmas present tonight? Just one? NO.

Eat breakfast, probably cinnamon and rice or perhaps oatmeal with half a pound of brown sugar on it, preferable something hot, since it's COLD outside.

Last minute big grocery shopping trip, don't forget to pick up a few stocking stuffers and obsess over any presents you aren't sure of yet.

Dad. can we open a present tonight? Just one? NO.

Mom starts handing out present wrapping assignments. Frequently I end up wrapping everything that isn't for me. Someone else gets the job of wrapping presents to me.

Dad gets in on the present wrapping assignment-ing. I wrap mom's presents too.

Santa doesn't come until the house is clean, do a ten-minute-on-each-room cleanup. Include vauuming.

Dad, can we open a present tonight? Just one? Quit asking.

Start baking some stuff. Mom usually starts a massive amount of bread dough (for rolls, pull-apart bread, lemon bread, and fresh loaves as well.) Someone else starts some cookies, I put the cake in for my Bouche de Noel- American style.

Dad sees the mess in the kitchen: "Santa doesn't come until the house is clean!"

We clean up the mess and start baking again. We realize halfway through the next treat that we need more chocolate chips, Sweetened condensed Milk, Evaporated milk, coconut, graham crackers, flour, sugar, cream, butter, almond bark, and anythign else the grocery store carries that isn't remotely healthy for you.

We go on a second last minute grocery store run.

We continue baking something. Lunchtime is past, everyone is snacking on whatever is baking in the kitchen, finding something healthy becomes a fend-for-yourself kind of occasion. I usually go with tomatoes and Cottage Cheese. Then I return to the Bouche. It is baked and cooled, now it is time to roll it up with pudding in the middle.

Dad, can we open a present tonight? Just one? No.

Santa Doesn't Come Until The House Is Clean. It's beginning to sound like a sick holiday song. I'm gettin' nothin' for Christmas, Brazillian Sleigh Bells, and Santa Doesn't Come Until The House Is Clean.

Speaking of Holiday Songs, someone has turned off the radio/CD player and started on the piano. They take requests. Inevitably, Aaron pounds out Brazilian Sleigh Bells for a while, then he wanders off and someone else wanders over. At some point, I and one of my sisters attempt Brazillian Sleigh Bells as a duet. It sounds worse, but is way more fun. Interspersed are snippets of Haendel's Messiah and "I Want a Snake for Christmas" A couple of us do a fantastic impressions of the chipmunks.

"Nancy, come sing this one."
"Mom, get out your accordian"
"That one sounds best on the French Horn"
"Hey, I learned that on the violin when I was inthe 5th grade..."
"The violin is broken."
Don't care.
"It takes more skill to play *insert brass instrument here* than it does to play *insert woodwind or string here*"
"Oh yeah, you couldn't even get a sound out of the Saxophone"
Dad, can we open a present tonight? Just One? NO.
"Who would want to get a sound out of the saxophone?"
"Nothing is as bad as when Nancy was learning the oboe."
End argument. That's true.

The baking continues in the kitchen while the instruments continue in the living room.
SANTA DOESN'T COME UNTIL THE HOUSE IS CLEAN.
Dad lays down in the middle of the living room floor and takes a nap. The "music" from every musical instrument we own continues.

Carolers? I'm surprised we even heard the doorbell! Wait, that means its late. Somebody throw a casserole in. Tuna or enchilada? Whatever we have the ingredients for.

Dad wakes up. Santa doesn't come until the house is clean. We eat dinner (late) and finish cleaning. Can we open a present tonight? Please? Just one?

Yay. Pajamas? It's a Christmas miracle! Everyone puts their pajamas on.
Dad reads Luke 2. The house is clean. There is still some bread to be baked. There is always baking to be done.

Go to bed. This year, you aren't allowed up until at least 8:30.

We all know the truth. We will hear dad pacing by 5:30. By 7, we will hear the song calling us to race up the stairs. But for now, we will pretend to believe it and moan and groan about it. So we go to our rooms. Aaron turns on some more music. Tab choir or that old Harry Simone Chorale recording. Either way, we fall asleep to the sounds of Oh Come All Ye Faithful and Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Aaron and I are the last to fall asleep. We snicker at the things that our sisters say in their sleep. And I know that the best part of Christmas is over.