Christmas morning as a child is forever etched into my memory, but the story really begins on Christmas Eve. That night was always a little different, because it also happened to be my mom’s birthday. Oddly enough, I can’t remember her ever having a birthday cake on her actual birthday. Christmas had a way of quietly taking over, and Mom never seemed to mind.
Chere and I were sent to bed as usual, but sleep came slowly. Before settling in, I wound up my alarm clock and carefully set it for 5:00 a.m. Every single Christmas Eve, without fail, either Mike or Tom would sneak in, turn off the alarm, and hide my clock. They thought that would stop me. It never did. Even without an alarm, I was awake well before six, which was our normal get-up time—chores before breakfast and all.
I’d tiptoe downstairs and wake Chere, and together we’d take our place on the bottom step, just before the landing. That step was ours. Merialice and Joanne sat on the second step. Judi and Nancy claimed the third. Tom and Mike took the fourth. Each of us knew exactly where we belonged, as if the staircase itself had been assigned long ago.
From there, we stared at the closed door at the top of the stairs—the door that led to the living room and everything we had been waiting for. We’d sit there for what felt like hours, whispering, giggling, and imagining what might be waiting downstairs. Every child had to be present, seated on their proper step, and ready.
Once we were all assembled, it was time to wake up Mom. She would carefully slide past us as she headed downstairs to make coffee. The house stayed quiet while she prepared, knowing exactly what was coming. After a few minutes, Dad went down as well. Only then did he get everything ready—the movie camera, the huge floodlights; those enormous floodlights that made the whole thing feel like a Hollywood production.
The excitement was overwhelming, yet the house was so quiet you could have heard a church mouse. No one wanted to miss the words we were waiting for. And then Mom would say it—soft but unmistakable:
“Come on down.”
One by one, we descended the stairs, squinting into the bright lights. We lined up, found our spots, and waited as presents were handed out. We didn’t grow up with much, and we weren’t expecting anything extravagant. But that didn’t dull the excitement in the slightest.
We opened our gifts one at a time, watching each other with wide smiles and laughter. Often, those presents were practical—socks, underwear, things we needed. Yet none of that mattered. The joy wasn’t in what we opened; it was in being together, sharing the moment as a family.
Looking back, I realize the greatest gift we were ever given was each other.
All Mom ever wanted was a big family, and she got one—five girls and three boys. I often wonder who inspired that dream. The answer feels obvious: Grandma Cooper. Mom and her two brothers didn’t grow up with much either, but they had one another, just as we did.
Some Christmas mornings, Grandma Cooper was there, sitting quietly and watching us open our presents. Other years, she joined us later for Christmas dinner. Her presence, whether early or late, always felt like part of the holiday itself.
As the years passed, Christmas Day took on new meaning as we celebrated with our own children and grandchildren. Those mornings have etched their own memories into my heart. I hope—more than anything—that our children, and their children’s children, find the true reason for the season and celebrate Christmas as only family can.
This story may have wandered a bit from Grandma Cooper, but the truth is, without her, none of this would have existed. Not the big family. Not the crowded staircase. Not the memories that still feel so close.
For that, I am forever grateful.
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