'Twas the night before Christmas...

Yeah, yeah, we all know how the story goes. Not a creature stirring. Not even a mouse.

Except at my house. Behold the story behind my 1970's era blog snapshot.

It's actually the last in a series of three pictures taken by my Dad one Christmas morn'. He shot them documentary style, moving with his subjects to capture them, instead of waiting for them to come back his way.

Good choice.

Photo number one: My younger brother Rob bounding into the living room to see if Santa came. The actual caption should read: Indeed St. Nick has arrived. Why don't you go wake your sister up? Don't want her to sleep away the day. It's already 6:15am. The sun will be up soon and there's not much time to till the land.

Number two: A shot of Rob from behind, scampering down the hall in his footed pj's on the way to wake me up. Caption: Come back, little one, you're being used as a pawn. The upcoming ire may traumatize you for life.

Grand finale: Me, waking up to greet the day, in an image that perfectly captures my childhood, and how I still feel about mornings. (In my defense, that's a window in the upper right corner. Yup. Black as night.)

There's my trademark short blonde bedheaded do' that helped Mom control my unnaturally thick wig, and got me mistaken, on more than one occasion, for a boy. There's the sheer terror on my brother's face, as he wondered, once again, what exactly he did and how he was going to pay for it. And finally, my oh-too-authentic expression of distain, which I can guarantee will still make an appearance should you wake me up.

Caption: I'm tellin'. Of course.