Christmas makes me think of a big breakfast for lunch. Bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, juice, chocolate milk, and, hell, toast.

We’d sleep in. Except Libby, who never could. One year we agreed she could play Christmas songs on the piano to wake us up — after 9:00 — on Christmas morning. She took requests.

Still in the musical mood when we ate our late breakfast, she noticed the pancakes had lots of little holes where the air bubbles had baked into the batter. She quickly crafted a sing-song tune for, “Holy pancakes on a holy day!” And we’ll never forget. Ask any any of us, and we’ll sing it for you.

One year, sixth grade I think, I was weirdly obsessed with getting a phone for Christmas. We’d gotten a second line for the internet (remember the days of the modem?). My parents had okayed me getting that phone line in my room. Probably because they knew I never talked on the phone. It really was an odd obsession.

We’d begged to open a gift on Christmas Eve. Finally, our parents relented. One gift. I unwrapped with bated breath.

Please be a phone. Please be a phone.

It was a mock turtleneck patterned with small penguins wearing scarves and sledding.

I burst into tears. And immediately felt guilty.

I felt guilty when I opened my phone the next day, and when I programmed my friends’ numbers on speed buttons I’d never use (plus, I had everyone’s number memorized anyway).

And I wore the shit out of that shirt even though I didn’t really like it (sorry, Mom). My penance throughout the rest of sixth grade.

But one of my favorite memories of a Christmas morning was the year of the Zeneca bag.

I’m not sure if my sisters and I went to much trouble to snoop. But I remember a year my mom had labeled all our gifts with strange letters — a secret code only she understood. My letter was F, which we had guessed was for “Family.” Tricky, Mom. Very tricky.

Thanks to Mom for photo of actual Zeneca bag

But this year, the year of the Zeneca bag, Mom was done with wrapping paper. Such a waste, really. And my parents had a small, cherished collection of Zeneca bags. This is not a real term for anyone but my immediate family. They were just canvas bags (early in the canvas bag era) branded with an agrochemical company called Zeneca and handed out at an ag conference to my [too-]eager father. And my parents LOVED them. Like, went nowhere without them — especially Dad.

“Mandy, hand me my binoculars out of the Zeneca bag in the backseat,” Dad would say in the car.

Anyway, my mom had decided that instead of wrapping paper, she’d just have out gifts in the other room and bring them in one at a time in a Zeneca bag. So, every time one of us slipped a gift from its canvas shell, she’d quickly shuffle in her socked feet to “wrap” the next gift in the Zeneca bag and bring it in, delivering it with much energy and exuberance.

One of my favorites Christmases.