As I promised in yesterday’s blog I’m going to share with you tonight what I remember about my son, Alan’s, third Christmas.

He had turned two (perhaps he was three) on November 2nd, 1961, and it’s hard to tell who was more hyped up over Christmas.  I suspect I’d win the case.  To foster his already budding  interest in music Santa had bought him a big drum with attached cymbals and a twirling baton.   He also got a machine that made lollipops.
That night after supper he had a phone call from Santa Claus, a deacon in our church by the name of Mr. Bond.    At a normal hour we went to bed and when I do  going to sleep is out of the question.  

I was captivated by anticipating  the look on Alan’s face when he would see all the toys Santa had brought. Every hour on the hour I checked to see if he was awake.  That darn kid just kept sleeping! About four o’clock a.m. I couldn’t stand it any longer.  I coughed, I sneezed.  He still stayed asleep.  Finally I shook him until I woke him up saying,  “Get up, Santa has been here and you have lots of toys under the tree.”  As he wobbled toward our living room I roused his father saying, “Get our movie camera. We need to record this milestone.”

Alan put on a good show bouncing from one toy to the other and his daddy, more asleep than awake, worked the camera.  

Many Christmases came and went and I’ve loved each of them but never again did I wake my child in the pre-dawn hours.