Tradition ... TRADITION!

Christmas and tradition go together like a turkey dinner - you eat until gravy and green beans seep out your ears and your nose is clogged with yams and marshmallows. There are so many Christmas traditions that it's easy to feed into the gluttony.

As a kid, my clan wasn't much different than anyone else around the world. Lil' Sis and I woke up with the roosters, burst through the parental units' bedroom door, pealed their eyes open, farted on their heads and decreed it was time to get up so we could score our sweet loot. When the teen age years hit, the roles shifted: Ma and Pop would storm into our rooms at the crack of 10 a.m., yank the sheets off our bed, farted on our heads and decreed us to be up, dressed and prepared to open presents in T-minus 10 minutes. No matter the age, we had to start with stockings, so we could unwrap our new tooth brushes and deoderants because Ma was always under the impression we only brushed our teeth once a year - on Christmas, hence the new teeth scrubber - and smelled like apes.

Once the Chia Pets, scratch-and-sniff ties and videos on the mating habits of the Northern Egrets were unwrapped the next clan tradition began - the wrapping paper fight. To hell with the new gear and electronic doo-dads, it was better to shove brightly colored (likely toxic if ingested) paper in each other's face until someone passed out from suffocation. Call it our own survival exercise, you never know when you'll be attacked by a Christmas wrapping paper wielding mugger in a dark alley on Christmas night.

Wife's family has their own traditions, and apparently paper fights in the living room were never part of their clan lore. This I learned during my first Christmas when I chucked a tigthly balled hunk of wrapping paper at Sister-in-Law-to-be that smacked her between the eyes (a declaration of war in my tribe that would be bring instant, jihad vengeance on my nation). She looked at me like I was evil incarnate, and I could see she was internally debating whether to take back the two seasons of Seinfeld DVDs, or worse yet, slice open my jugular with disc one of season one.

They are also a open-presents-on-Christmas Eve family. I come from a open-presents-on-Christmas morning clan. That takes a little to get used to. But after throwing back a few more brandy-and-coffees than the body can handle on Christmas Eve, that's a welcomed tradition. The last thing a hangover needs on Christmas morning is the constant sound of rips and shreds, or the sights of electric red and green plaid paper which can be a trigger for fluid expulsion in the In-Laws waste disposal center. Never an enduring trait on Christmas morning, especially when the afternoon at their house consists of Italian potluck whereupon we pile an assortment of red-sauce pasta delights on our plates and open our pie holes to the Christmas flavors of marinara and mozarella cheese. Throw in some meatballs, spicy sausages and eggplant and chicken parmigiana and this Christmas tradition is something I count the days off the calendar for beginning Dec. 26.

With it being Christmas Eve last night, we opened up gifts at the In-Laws' compound. As we sat there tearing through Christmas greed, I couldn't help but think this would be the last Christmas on our own - not that there's anything wrong with that - and that traditions will change next year as the Freeloader will garner the attention as we watch it's eyes grow with wonderment at the lights and colors and sounds of Christmas. There's nothing better than watching a kid's face soak in Christmas.

That fact was cemented last night when I opened one box from the In-Laws. It contained four books that appeared to be charity book sale rescues, when in fact they came from the In-Laws private collection. Two were for Wife and two were for me. One was my Dad-in-Law's book when Wife was born, given to him from his In-Laws, and the other was Wife's grandfather's book for when Mom-in-Law was born. It was maybe one of those most touching Christmas gifts I had ever received, and something as her note said could be given to my Freeloader when they present me and Wife with our Grand-Freeloaders.

With us past the halfway mark of unleashing a new hellion upon the world, this Christmas has taken on a new, special meaning that will be surpassed by next year's Christmas as we watch our Freeloader roll in wrapping paper and chew on ribbon until Wife yells at me and pulls the kid away from it's new toy and plops it in front of the real gifts.

And new traditions will begin.

I expect the fart-head wake up calls to begin in year two. I would be disappointed if they didn't.

Merry Christmas from us to you.