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28 When your extended family lives overseas, or is absent for whatever reason, Christmas can be a long day. My parents, brother and I were the only people in our family who lived in America, so it was always just the four of us. There were 4th of July parties and New Year's parties and Easter egg hunts where we could interact with humans on the outside; but Christmas was a family day and as far as family went, we were it. In order to keep Christmas Day special and busy, my parents dragged out the present-opening until clear through Boxing Day. Our gift-giving system was about as relaxed as the protocol at Scotland Yard. We raced downstairs in the morning like other children, but all gifts were wrapped and we were not allowed to touch them. If a gift was too big or bulky for wrapping paper, it would be shrouded with a tarp, hidden by the basement sump pump and opened sometime during the six o'clock evening news. Once we admired the gifts we would one day be allowed to open, we had to get dressed up in our best attire and eat a proper breakfast complete with china and crystal. After the dishes were done, we commenced the Opening of the Stocking Gifts. Every stocking gift was wrapped, and we went around the table, opening them one at a time. In order to assist Santa, my father was responsible for purchasing the stocking gifts, and the only store he frequented was Kmart. As such, we spent a good hour or two rejoicing over Q-tips, dental floss, bubble baths with urinary tract infection warnings, shoe sole inserts, and colognes like "English Leather" and "Chaz."* My brother and I would be dancing with excitement, as it was finally time to open the real presents. But once we actually settled by the tree, the phone would ring. My grandparents calling from England. Every single one of us spoke to each one of them separately. They would ask if Father Christmas had come, and at that point my brother and I still weren't even sure. Then my Mom would say it was time to call our grandmother in Germany. Again, we all passed the phone around and another hour would go by. Then my dad would be feeling a bit peckish, so we'd eat a full lunch. Usually while cleaning those dishes and preparing the table for the full turkey dinner to come, my uncle would call from Saudi Arabia, where he worked as a civil engineer. It was a poor connection with a huge delay, so that always took a good while. At the slow speed that sound traveled through the Middle Eastern phone system, we might as well have been trying to speak to him through the Crab Nebula. Around this time, my brother and I were so impatient that we were in paroxysms that would rival the Salem witchcraft children's. I assumed that all children endured 16 hours of spleen-rupturing suspense on Christmas Day, until I was in second grade and told Jennifer Parchem that I hoped I'd get a Barbie Dream House sometime before the after-dinner coffee was served. "We finish opening the gifts before breakfast," she said. I was stunned. "How? Doesn't it take a long time?" By Erica Ford