My family has many Christmas traditions. In fact, we have Christmas Day down to a science. But even before December rolls around, Christmas is already beginning. Soon after Thanksgiving, Candi will break out the holiday decorations, stripping the house of turkeys and leaves, and replacing those with sparkling blue flowers and a Christmas tree.

I have two siblings: an older brother and a younger sister. The memories are happily etched into my brain. Not of the toys or the food - although, those are always good too - but the practice of Christmas that my siblings reinforce year after year, though varied because of change.

One year, my brother woke us up at 6 in the morning, enlisting us to do his dirty work: jump on Mom and Dad's bed so we could open presents. We happily complied. Another year, we woke up at 4 am, knowing we couldn't wake up the parents that early, my sister and I went into the living room to 'oh' and 'ah' at what Santa left for two hours.

It's the same routine though. We wake up early, 6 or 7, depending on how our excitement measures up to our sleepiness. Candi makes Mom's coffee and Dad's hot chocolate. I start the fire and get the garbage bag for the wrecked wrapping paper. Blake would supervise when we were little; now, he's in Texas. Then came the part that seems to get harder each year, perhaps because we are too big to safely jump on the bed with our parents still resting beneath the covers. Or maybe it's because waking them up sucks some of the Christmas air from the room momentarily. They are grouchy, uncooperative, like children who don't want to wake up for school. They moan, groan, complain, and barter. Luckily, for the kid's sake, they are no match for Candi - she's a force to be reckoned with when she wants something.

Soon after, they tumble from their bedroom into the living room, grumbling about canceling Christmas next year and going somewhere, leaving us kids at home. They haven't done it yet, which is probably why we just laugh and hand them their respective warm drinks.

Then comes the part that gets everyone excited and I've began to understand why. The gifts are under the tree. The tree used to be taller, stretching from the floor, nearly to the ceiling. It was fatter too- we couldn't wrap our arms around it. But that fake tree got trapped in the top of the garage when no one thought to remove it from the rafters when Dad put up a new ceiling. Now our fake tree is no taller than I am and certainly skinnier. The gifts have also changed size, getting bigger as we do. They are also more equally distributed as our gifts for our parents have become more than just the $5 Santa Shop trinkets from school. It was definitely easier to shop when we were younger, that's for sure. But I think that's by my own mind's fault because I think I'm figuring out gift giving, in its existence.

To me, giving is a sign of love. I especially adore Christmas because the gifts are dressed in sparkling snowflakes or cartoon Santas, masking what is being given. There is no matching value for value. The love is not being judged, just accepted. And as I'm getting older, I wish to buy more for my loved ones- although, my bank account doesn't typically allow me to begin to express my feelings. The older I get, the more I want to give; the older I get, the more I understand the trials and tribulations that one year puts a person through.

Christmas, to me, is a celebration of religious traditions, but also a reward for surviving another year. The holidays are reason to gather your loved ones and just be near one another.

At our house, we sort out the presents, leaving the tree long forgotten in our celebration. Dad's presents go in a pile at his feet, Mom's at hers, and so forth. We all bubble with excitement to reveal what we've given others. Yelling out to Dad to "open the big one next!" Or eagerly pushing a Rudolph bag into Mom's hands, smiles bubbling over into giggles of mischief and joy.

I know. I know. Christmas is not supposed to be about presents. But in my family, presents are half of the holiday; it's not about the gifts we get, but the gifts we give.