I remember lying in my bed one Christmas Eve staring at the ceiling with jittery butterflies in my stomach—the aroma of apple pie and English toffee still wafting through the house. Some time around midnight, I finally drifted into a fitful sleep only to awake again at 4:00—still too early, but closer. For some reason, I decided to sing myself to sleep by chanting 4:03. By 4:04, I had woken my older brother and, well,
let's just say all wasn’t calm.
I hated waiting.