Almost every family that celebrates Christmas has its traditions. There’s the family photos of everyone in their PJs, the big reveal of the tree, the unpacking of the stockings. Some parents let the kids wake up whenever and just open gifts at noon or later, with maybe some food and some laughs. A casual sort of ordeal. Some other parents, like my mom, have a very particular way of doing Christmas morning.

We all have to wait upstairs, my stepdad, Bob, closes both doors to the living room where the tree is, and we come in one by one and get our picture taken. Our “big” presents are usually unwrapped and immediately visible. We have cinnamon buns, plain and orange, the later being my personal favorite. The dogs are allowed in the living room for a change, and they enjoy their own treats. We go in order opening presents and it’s all very organized, like my mom is. Then I go to my grandma’s on my dad’s side and visit with that side of the family too.

But this isn’t about that. This is about the little bit of chaos I like to cause every year, the tradition I’ve upheld for more than five years now. Everyone in the house hates it, which naturally means I have to do it every year.

I’m not a morning person. I don’t like getting up before early afternoon, and I could literally sleep all day. I’m nocturnal. But on Christmas, something magical happens. The Christmas spirit wakes me up at about 5:30am, without an alarm, and I’m wide awake. I could run a marathon. I could write a research paper. I could actually clean my room. Of course, I have to share this energy with the rest of my family. Because I love them.

I go to my little sister’s room first. She’s now a teenager, which means that she doesn’t go along with it as easily and enthusiastically anymore. Regardless, I’m there, sitting on her bed, shaking her awake. She groans, grumpy, and says her line, “What time is it...?”

“It’s Christmas time!”

“No, what time is it?”

“5:30!”

I grin maniacally and she rolls over, unhappy. She’s learned by now that I won’t leave her alone, so I am able to drag her out of bed and over to our older brother’s room to throw pillows at him and receive an unwelcoming yell and a door slam. Then it’s on to my mom and stepdad’s room to get the same tired line from my mom, “Go back to bed until 7.”

So my sister and I sit in my room on my bed. She tries to go back to sleep, I talk at her, she sometimes talks back. We get too loud and are scolded by mom to quiet down. Some years we do fall back asleep, some years we stay up. But we’re back in the hall at 7, ready for Christmas. I go downstairs and start the cinnamon buns and we wait until my brother, mom and Bob roll out of bed.

Those talks are never about anything in particular, just the half-awake, weird and slightly delusional ramblings of sisters with some obnoxious and irrational laughter thrown in. I never remember what we say. We don’t have an agenda, it’s not like we exchange reflective letters or have some organized way of passing time like my mom always does. It’s just random, whatever we feel like saying.

I think it’s one of my favorite parts of Christmas. Even if they dread it every year.