When I was a kid, 10:00 Christmas morning was about the time we all sat down to breakfast. Presents had been opened, coffee had been brewed, bread had been toasted, bacon had been fried. My brother and I had awakened before dawn, ran to my parents' room to wake them up so we could all go downstairs to see what Santa had brought. We would be grumbled at, told to wait until the sun was up before we could go downstairs. We would then go to our rooms and lay under our covers, wide awake, peering out the window in order to spy a tinge of orange breaking over the horizon.
My wife's family always opened their gifts on Christmas Eve, and slept in on Christmas morning.
It appears that our 2-year-old daughter takes after her mother.
She stirred at about 9:00, crying that she couldn't find her pacifier. I found it for her, and she closed her eyes and rolled over. I tried to entice her by asking if she remembered who was supposed to stop by our house after she went to sleep.
"Santa," she peeped, eyes open just slightly.
"Do you think he left us anything?"
"Isn't Santa supposed to bring something when he comes to your house on Christmas Eve?"
"Presents." Even mousier than before.
"Do you want to see if he brought you any presents?"
Cute. Meanwhile, I am waiting to see her face when she walks into the living room and sees the pile of toys and wrapping paper beneath the tree. I want excitement. I want my daddy moment. She is not playing fair. I took a shower, not trying to be quiet, hoping I would wake the two of them. I even shaved and ran the heat fan.
Right now, she is snuggling with her mother in our bedroom. I am waiting for either one of them to get up and join me in the living room. It may be noon before I am no longer alone.