The year Christmas morning got quiet

We lay there staring at the ceiling. Something was off. It was quiet. No squeals. No patter of excited feet running down the hall to our bedroom. Just dark and quiet. Every year on Christmas morning, my husband and I were forbidden to get out of bed — an unspoken law of sorts. The way it was supposed to go was the children were to burst in and jump on the bed and wake us.

"It's Christmas, it's Christmas!" they'd say.

But this year, we lay there, eyes wide-open. We'd periodically check the bedside clock for the time or allow our phones to illuminate for a moment for us to double-check the time (but not long enough that a child might catch us awake). No. That wouldn't be good.

"Aww, you're awake?" they'd say, and we'd know that we had ruined Christmas. So, there we lay.

While sugarplums danced in their heads, coffee danced in ours or maybe we danced with dreams of a quick jaunt to the bathroom.

"This is ridiculous," my husband whispered as the room began to lighten with the dawn.

"What do we do?" I answered.

My husband unlocked his phone screen and texted the eldest teenage child.

"Can we please commence the Christmas morning wake-up routine?"

This was before our son was born. Our girls were older; we understood that. The gift requests alone would clue you in to that fact. Puzzles were 500-piece, not 24, and stockings were stuffed with gift cards, not Matchbox cars. Though at ages 15 and 11, the kids still appreciated the chocolate. Christmas traditions should be changing as they grow, but who were we to say when?

Once Santa's cover was blown, a few more years of surprises under the tree kept the excitement alive. The girls still wanted to bound through our bedroom door to get the much-anticipated show on the road.

A quiet Christmas morning was bound to happen. My husband and I were bound to lay in bed bored and waiting while our adolescents slept through the dark winter morning knowing their gifts would wait. My husband's text message to the eldest said "delivered", but it had not been read. Even the dog still contentedly snored.

You'd think they'd tell us, "Mom. Dad. Wake us up when the cheesy potatoes are done. We're sleeping in this year," and not leave us laying around wondering if this was the year Christmas would change.

I glanced at my husband and tried to determine if he was annoyed with the delay or if he shared my pang of sadness in this ending of a parenting era.

I got out of bed, put on my housecoat and shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee. This roused the dog, who shook her head. I smiled at the appropriate jingle sound the tags on her collar made.

As the oven warmed for our traditional Christmas breakfast, I drank a cup of coffee and warmed to the idea of a quiet Christmas morning. I could enjoy a moment of peace and remembrance next to the lit tree. Soon, my husband joined me. Then the kids one-by-one made their way down the hall sleepily — yawning and rubbing their eyes.

I gave each a squeeze. "Good morning. Merry Christmas."