Sometimes as an adult, I think back to those early Christmases with a strange longing. As much as I love giving, its always nice to wake up Christmas morning and be greeted with something you really wanted. As I watch my fourteen year old sister-in-law greet Christmas morning deflated, I remember how much joy I got (or didnt get) from the new pairs of underwear (fancy, but hey, theyre underwear!) or the sweaters I started getting instead of toys each year. It was right around the same time period that I discovered the joy of playing Santa, and rediscover the meaning of Christmas.

My brother was born when I was eleven, so I had quite a jump start on him. When he was three or so, my sister and I were invited to stay up and help our then-single mom put together his Santa Claus presents together. She was anticipating a difficult night, having purchased a tricycle and a push-pedal firetruck, so she wanted all the hands she could get, I guess.

We decided that the fire truck would be the most difficult of the two after all, how complicated can it be to put together a tricycle? So we pulled out all the odds and ends and began construction. Surprisingly, the fire truck came with fantastic instructions, clearly written and with (correctly drawn) pictures of each piece for easier matching. At the most, it took us an hour to put together, but I honestly believe it was closer to thirty minutes. Keep in mind this took place at about one in the morning, and you can see the three of us were cheered bed was in sight!

My mom pulled out the directions for the tricycle as my sister and I lay the pieces on the floor. We had a Phillips head screwdriver, all that the truck required, so we figured we were all set. Mom read the first step, and my sister ran off in search of a regular screwdriver. Step 2 had my mom scratching her head and us two girls trying to match up the (undrawn and poorly described) next piece needed. Step 3 involved a hammer (on a tricycle? Not what we were expecting!). By now an hour had passed and the tricycle was a pitiful pile of nothingness laid out on the floor. Tempers were getting frayed, and yawns were growing plentiful.

Then came the kicker. Step 4 was in another language. Not even Spanish, which I was studying in school and my mom had studied years before. Nope, it was something oriental, with little characters Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, your guess is as good as mine. My mom scanned the rest of the instructions and in dismay realized that every two or three steps the directions changed from English to this obscure, unknown language, then continued right on in English!

At this point, my mom made the educated decision to chuck the instructions. Well do it like a man, she declared. I guessed that meant without directions. We pulled the box over and studied the picture, and began making educated guesses about what went where. We went to bed sometime around five that morning; my brother, of course, woke up by seven.

Amazingly enough, that tricycle never fell apart on him. Still, as I watched him jump for joy literally through a sleep-induced haze, I remember thinking yes, even this was worth it.

I have two children now, both under the age of three, and while I eagerly anticipate Christmas morning and the sparkle in their eyes, one thing is for sure:

They arent getting anything that requires assembly.