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My favorite memory of Christmas morning came one day when I was six. We were stationed in Japan, and my parents were lucky enough to have found gifts through my Grandfather to have shipped to us.
That year I got a Barbie Dream House. You know, the one that had three stories and an elevator you pulled with a string. I LOVED that house. It made three moves with us and traveled around the world.
However, my little sister, four years younger, HATED that house. Here’s why.
My parents gave us gifts under the trees and in our stockings. Our stockings were filled with candy and toothbrushes and lotion. Pretty much anything small my Mom could find. J
But we each got 1 Santa Gift. One large gift that may or may not be wrapped that “Santa” brought us. And since they weren’t wrapped, “Santa” was kind enough to use one of our sheets to cover them. So, we walked out of the bedroom area into the living room where the tree was. I ran past my large gift covered under a sheet and looked around for the cookies that “Santa” ate. He did well that year.
So I missed the three stories, about four feet tall, sheet-draped Barbie Dream house.
My sister did not.
“No Santa! No Santa!”
Apparently she though the sheet was Santa and was going to kill her. She was two.
She cried and we had to make sure she was okay. My mother ripped the sheet off and explained that Carrie’s gift was a house, not a murdering Santa.
My sister is 21 now. Every Christmas I hug her then scream, “No Santa! No Santa!”
Love in my family is unconditional. Well, okay, it should be.
What are your favorite memories? Any as funny as mine?
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