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When I fondly remember Christmases past, it's like reliving a Martha Stewart photo shoot. The fireplace crackling, the black-and-white images of It's a Wonderful Life reflecting off the martini glasses. The stockings hung by the chimney with care. Savoury bite-sized treats purchased from a gourmet store sitting on a silver tray next to warm brie with fresh figs.
If you listened carefully you could hear the muffled banter of two fools in love celebrating Christmas with fiscal abandon and adult-only conversation.
In the centre of the room stood a nine-foot sparkling Christmas tree with gilded ornaments. Underneath sat carefully arranged and perfectly wrapped, colour co-ordinated presents. The boxes were all sizes, from a small blue one hinting of its sparkling contents to several big silver ones with the latest hi-tech toys hidden inside.
I remember I couldn't wait to get under the tree to tear open those gifts. In the days before Christmas, I would crawl under the boughs, shaking boxes and lifting the corners of the wrapping paper trying to sneak a peek.
With equal fondness, I remember the Christmas it all changed.
My son was due on Christmas Day, but thankfully arrived early - on the 20th. Stubborn from the day he was born, Noah was either not willing or did not need to poop. The nurses were perplexed and came in every few hours to check on his progress. This became their Christmas vigil, as I was not allowed to leave the hospital until he had done his business and proved the plumbing was in good order.
At the same time, I was having my own plumbing issues. Swollen and stitched back together like a Christmas turkey, I too was less than eager to prove my plumbing was up to snuff. I had just shot out an 8½-pound baby. I was not prepared to test the sewing prowess of a man who probably didn't sew on his own buttons.
I looked at my beautiful baby with tears in my eyes as he slept in the crib beside my hospital bed. Poor guy - we were two peas in a constipated pod. Our bond was sealed forever.
After two days, it was time for us to go home. Noah had to pass poop this very day - it was non-negotiable. The hospital needed my room. A nurse came in with a suppository, vowing to clean the proverbial house.
With the precision of an air-traffic controller, she stripped Noah with one hand and with the other positioned the little pink miracle pill. But as the laxative was about to go up, Noah broke wind and out came the backlog with such force that the nurse was literally cleaning house.
She assured me now that the blockage was clear, he would be going three to four times a day. Buy stock in Pampers, the nurses recommended, because the floodgates were open.
My husband dragged us both home, Noah feeling two pounds lighter and me feeling like I had to give birth again - this time minus the epidural. I drank prune juice, took fibre supplements and started swigging mineral oil straight out of the bottle like Jack Daniel's.
Noah nursed for hours at a time, and giggled and squealed with delight, but there was no poop in sight. I tracked everything and did the math. I hadn't had a movement since before Noah was born, and he had not gone three to four times a day like the nurse had promised. No doubt I was the worst mother in the world.
It was Christmas Eve when the dam broke. No, not that dam - the tears. At noon, my husband was heading out for some last-minute shopping and asked me, "What did you want for Christmas?"
I started to bawl. "Poop!" I screamed. "Lots of poop. I want to poop, I want Noah to poop. I just want poop for Christmas!"
I sobbed as I gulped a shot of mineral oil with a prune juice chaser. My husband hugged me. "There, there, everything is okay."
"No," I cried, "everything is not okay. I am so constipated I am going to rip my stitches out and Noah is at least eight poops short of where the nurse said he should be. All I want for Christmas is poop and I want it now!"
My husband quietly backed out of the room. Grabbing his keys and wallet he sprang for the door. I wondered if Noah and I would ever see him again. Parenting is not for the faint of heart, I was quickly learning.
Thankfully, my husband did return a few hours later with a bouncy swing for Noah and spicy takeout for me.
Whether it was Santa or my husband, I'll never know, but my wish came true. Christmas morning brought relief to both Noah and I. It was the best Christmas gift I had ever received.
Since that first holiday six years ago, Noah, our four-year-old daughter, Phoebe, my husband and I have celebrated many Christmases, but none compare to that first one together.
I have never forgotten or regretted that desperate Christmas wish. Today, the gifts we treasure most are health, family and love.
Tamara Smith-Miksic lives in Georgetown, Ont.