My dad is from Green Bay. My mom is in from Escanaba. They grew up in similar households with similar ideals, but there was one wedge between them: When do you open presents on Christmas?

The whole night is a repeating process and it’s carried out with a precision that I think even the elves working on Santa’s assembly lines would appreciate.

My mother’s family was in the Christmas Eve camp. The Winkers all gather for dinner at the house they grew up in and drink coffee and beer and wine and milk with the tree full of presents tempting away the younger and older of us. In fact, the only difference may be that once you hit the age of 14 you have a bit more tact that keeps you from poking through the pile and finding your name. (But, c’mon, we know you’re still thinking of it. That big one has to be yours.)

As the last of the ham and various mayo-based salads go extinct you can feel the tension in the room. The anticipation. I swear, I’ve seen my cousins’ young’ns just shaking with excitement. And that’s when the group slowly starts to gather in the sunroom. It starts with moving the cookie tray from the dining room table to the side table next to the tree. And as people obviously follow where the cookies are, slowly the family is all there.

The buildup doesn’t stop there though. Gifts are given out by my cousin one at a time. As each gift is delivered to its rightful owner we all stop and watch the big reveal, then comment on how beautiful/useful/thoughtful/large it is. We ‘oo’ and ‘ah’ and then cross our fingers that the next gift is for you. The whole night is a repeating process and it’s carried out with a precision that I think even the elves working on Santa’s assembly lines would appreciate.

My dad, on the other hand, comes from a different background. They’re a Christmas morning group. You wake up at a time earlier than any kid has any right to be up at. And the way my dad describes the gift opening itself seems chaotic at the least and terrifying at the most. Paper is flown with abandon as the kids dig into their prey of red and green and gold. It actually would closely resemble the Christmas morning scene of A Christmas Story – a vapid, intense five minute fury spurned by the perfect mixture of excitement, lack of sleep and cookies for breakfast.

Now these two contrasting takes on a fundamental aspect of many childhoods don’t really say much. Maybe a wanna-be Frasier Crane out there would take the traditions as a metaphor for our family dynamics and relationships, the stresses we endure throughout the year, the amount of letters we write to each other or the number of times we call. Maybe it touches on some deep connection to a long ago relative or the various cultures that make up our blood. Maybe it says a lot of things.

But to me, it’s just Christmas. It’s what we do every year at that one time we get to all see each other on a mostly joyous occasion and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m cool with the gut-wrenching anticipation and the chaotic free-for-all.

I mean, as long as I get what was on my list.