Christmas Noogies

"MOOOOOOOOOOM! Neil's cussing at me in French again!"

"MOOOOOOOOOOM! Ben's in the Army!"

What is it about being around my family that brings out the pre-pubescent in me? I'm a college student -no, a graduate student. I've supposedly grown up since being an undergrad (all of 4 months ago). So how is it that I can go from writing 20 pages of pure genius on "The Language of Mediocrity in Higher Education: Being the Second best Italian Restaurant in Town" to finding myself in "time out" at the age of 23?

For 11 months of the year, I am an expert in conflict resolution. It is what I do. As a CL, I kept the towel-snapping and late-night pillow-fights to a bare minimum. As a Graduate Assistant with Baylor Student-Athlete Services, (take a moment to genuflect) it is my job, at times, to calmly explain to a 250lb+ offensive lineman that playing with the exposed wires from a light switch fixture that's being worked upon really isn't such a good idea and perhaps his time would be better spent studying for his English final.

So how is it that at the first "Nerdo Neilie-Wheelie!" from my older sister, my fists are balled and I'm showing off the latest in cursing terminology?

But its not all so bad. Being able to hug my mom at any moment is pretty sweet. I swear, everytime still, when I smell the woman, I'm 7 again and curled up in her lap. And believe it or not, the woman can still give me pause with the shout of "Neil-Edward-Golemo!" or even worse, the dreaded phrase: "wait til your father comes home."

So why is this? Is there a magic line somewhere between Waco and Hamilton wherein none of my maturity may pass? Maybe it's the cartoonish Jesus Christ billboard sign reading "This Blood's for you" somewhere in Missouri...

In this house, I can be myself. I know love like everyone should know, free of strings attached and clauses or conditions. Yes, my house is a verbal minefield. But it is only so because I know there is no action upon this earth that I could ever commit for which my family hasn't already forgiven me. I know this, and so does my family. Ben can be grumpy and we'll only laugh and try to make him smile. My dad can yell and we'll only let him feel like he's the boss. Kate can be sarcastic and we'll marvel at her wit. Beth can be dramatic, and we'll play along. Mom can nag and, with rolled eyes, we'll comply. And I can completely disregard everyone's feelings and they will only continue to bless me by listening to rambling story after rambling story after rambling story after rambling story...

Hamilton is no longer my home, but it will always be the place to which I return. It would be a horrible place for me to live, but it will always be an amazing place to have been from. However this house will always feel like love, and the people who live there -if only for a couple of weeks a year- will always hold my heart.

Right now, it's 12:35 AM on a very young Christmas Eve. The living room is dark save for a touch-lamp we have to turn on/off by twisting the bulb in and out in the far corner of the room, and the soft glow of the white lights on the Christmas tree "that's going to be classy for once, damnit." This old house is quiet, but not lonely. Dark, but not cold. Upstairs, my brother and sisters have settled for their slumber, and I am up, thinking about how blessed I am to have had my life flavored by them. I can hear my parents chatting, the two best friends, as they always have. Genuine tears come to my eyes, as I drop to my knees and thank the Lord for the five greatest gifts a fella's ever been given.

They say Christmas is a time of miracles. Amen, Jimmy Stewart. Amen.