On Christmas morning, I woke up to Mary, our 15-year-old daughter, screaming up the stairs, “MMMom!” Half dazed I bolted out of bed. I rushed downstairs to find Mary scolding her two younger brothers.

“Mom,” she snapped, “they ruined Christmas.” Glancing into the living room, I understood Mary’s frustration. Torn boxes, ribbons, and wrapping paper were scattered everywhere.

Several years later at 12, John, our third-born, penned the following hilarious confession, explaining his version of what happened that Christmas.

John’s Story

Wowwwooowwwowowowo. The flashing lights and sirens quickly brought me back to reality. I stared in disbelief at my Green Arrow action figure. It was just what I wanted for my Christmas Eve present.

I sighed happily as I gazed at the four bulging stockings hanging above the hearth and then at our sparkling Christmas tree with mounds of neatly wrapped presents underneath it. I could smell eggnog in the air.

“It’s getting late, and we’ve got a big day tomorrow on Christmas,” said my mom.

I sighed and looked longingly at the presents under the tree. Reluctantly, my brother and I trudged up the stairs. I walked into my room and slipped into my bed.

That night I tossed and turned. Being a 5 year old, I was extremely excited about Christmas. A few hours later, I got up and paced around my room, and then I lay back down. I took one final glance at the clock. It blinked in a timely rhythm—4:00, 4:00, 4:00—like a great grandfather clock with the never-ending ticking.

Finally, I heard my dad go clomping down the stairs. He was probably going to help my 12-year-old brother, Grant, with his newspaper route.

This is so booooorrrring, I whined to myself. Okay, that’s it, I thought. I’m getting up. And I jumped out of bed and headed for the hallway.

“Hi Ja!” whispered my little 2-year-old brother, Nate, as he emerged from his room.

I glanced around the hall to make sure nobody heard him. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs.” His eyes gleamed.

“Race you!” I whispered. Like twin gazelles, we bounded down the stairs. We swerved around the corner and slid into the living room. We gasped in astonishment at the presents stacked high under the tree.

We plugged the Christmas lights into the wall. Suddenly, the tree transformed from a dark shadow into a mega mania of lights and ornaments. Like twin tornados we ripped through all the presents—a necklace here, a wrist watch there. After we had opened all the presents, we moved over to the stockings.

“This is some nice chocolate that Grant got, huh Ja.”

“Oh yeah, mmmm! This chocolate’s delicious!”

“What about these suckers that Mary got, Ja?”

“Mmmm, yeah, pass me one of those too, Nate.”

All the candy flavors burst inside my mouth like fireworks on the fourth of July.

Suddenly, Mary, my 15-year-old sister, walked into the room. She looked up drowsily. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAA! What did you do? And……huuuuuu!” She shrieked. “The PRESENTS! Mom!”

She ran out of the room really mad, screaming. She sounded like an out of tune trumpet.

Soon my dad and Grant came back from the paper route. Though they were disappointed, they took it much better then my sister did. Eventually, everybody found his or her presents.

As a consequence, Nate and I had to pick up all the mess that we had made, and we didn’t get our candy. And overall, it was a disappointing Christmas for almost everyone.

A New Perspective

With a thirteen-year age gap between Mary and her youngest brother, she has had plenty of practice learning how to love her brothers. That Christmas when her brothers—the twin tornadoes—descended upon the living room, twisting and churning with excitement could have remained a negative memory. But now Mary laughs even harder than her brothers.