We did our big Christmas thing last night, with a huge feast, the traditional live tweeting of A Christmas Story, and the joy of being with the people you love most (which is always a good thing, but seems especially joyful this time of year.)

The kids (who are actually adults, but will always be “the kids” to me) woke me up at 10 this morning, and I was grateful for the extra sleep. It turns out that, even when your kids are adults, you still find yourself awake after midnight wrapping presents on the floor with your wife. Holiday tradition and all that, you see.

While I drank my coffe, the dogs and cats got gifts from Santa in their stockings (yes, we’re those people) and accepted them in the usual manner: disinterest from the cats, and excitement measured in megatons from the dogs. After the dogs retreated to their particular spots with their new chew toys, we opened our gifts to and from each other. If you look really hard, you can see the greatest thing in the world that Anne got me.

While my kids opened their gifts, I replayed nearly two decades of Christmas mornings together.  I remembered their joy and excitement when they got a bike or a basketball or the new Harry Potter thing. I remembered being so exhausted from staying up most of the night to assemble something I could hardly see straight, but being so happy when Ryan or Nolan exploded with joy upon opening it. There were bikes and rollerblades and skateboards and basketball hoops and remote controlled cars, and even though all of those things are long gone, the memories we built together on every Christmas Eve and Christmas Day — the joy of being with the people we love — endure.

I’m so grateful to be with my family today, and so proud of the young men Anne and I raised. All I wanted for Christmas was to be with my family, and Santa delivered. Big time.