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Michael stands on the sofa his face pressed to the window glass, “It’s the mailman! Mimmy, It’s the mailman!”

            My little one wants to go out and get the mail. A little later, when the UPS truck makes its 3 PM run, he screams, “The UPS truck! Did he bring me a present?”

            He loves to bring in the boxes delivered by UPS and FedEx and thinks all boxes are presents for him. My three-year-old great-grandson loves these carriers and goes nuts over seeing them come onto our cul-de-sac or on the road when we are driving. He has made friends with some of the drivers, who honk their horns when they go by our house and wave at him either standing in the doorway or with his face pressed to the window.

             Our Christmas tree is more beautiful this year than the year before. I always think so. The room is lit with twinkly lights. Michael’s light hair is awash with the colors of the brightly blinking bulbs, and we, my husband and I, watch him open his gifts. I am excited for when he gets to the stocking and discovers the special trucks I have hidden, tucked in with the candy canes, Hershey Kisses, and big orange in the toe.

            He receives so many gifts. As a guardian child, yet still, within our large family unit, he has many who love him. This year we’ve all gone overboard.  He will never playfully with all the toys he has received.

            Finally, it is time for the stocking. I’m on the edge of my seat and trying desperately to contain myself from instructing him to dump the stocking on the floor. He’s still distracted by all the previous gifts. I coax him back, “Look, Michael”, I say, “Santa left you presents in your stocking!”

            The moment has come. I am beaming. I know he will love them, but I must see his surprise and glee. I want him to believe they come from Santa. I don’t want to take the credit because his love of the toys will remind me of how blessed I am.

            I am not disappointed. That familiar shout, “The UPS truck! the FedEx truck!” and my favorite, “the mailman!” soon followed.  Hugs and kisses exchanged I love you’s.  Tomorrow, the mail will run, and Michael will fly to the sofa, mail truck in hand, mess up my sheer panels and press his little face against the glass to watch the truck maneuver the cul-de-sac, and I experience another moment of joy within a very busy day.

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