It's only December 23rd and I already know all about the best gift I'm going to get for Christmas. Before you rush off to report me to the Santa Police (wouldn't that be cool if there actually was such a thing?), I can assure you I haven't "accidentally" stumbled upon a box in the closet or "inadvertently" slipped the wrapping off a package under the tree. No, the best present of this or any other year is not going to be in any box. It is not going to be decorated with a giant bow (at least I don't think it will). It is going to arrive tonight around six o'clock and (I'm pretty sure) it won't be delivered by a guy in little brown shorts.
Four months and fourteen days ago, I watched my son drive off in a moving van. If I had had any idea it was going to be this long between hugs, there would have been one other item packed into one of those over-stuffed cartons making their way to Denver.
For the first time, we weren't together for Thanksgiving. For the first time, I didn't get to make him his favorite birthday cake or watch him open his presents. He wasn't even able to be here to celebrate the birth of his sister's first child. For four and a half months we have had to make do with texts, e-mails and hastily arranged Skype chats - none of which afforded any opportunity for hugs. But all that ends today. He will be home for Christmas.
And unlike the song, it won't be only in my dreams.
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