I used to have nightmares when I was a little kid that I woke up

Host: The snow fell gently outside, thick and silent, covering the world in forgiveness. The window glass glowed with the reflection of warm light from the small living room, where a fire crackled softly, casting golden ripples on the walls lined with old photographs. It was that time between Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, when even time itself seems to pause to listen for miracles.

Jack sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-empty glass of wine beside him, his hands busy wrapping a gift that clearly refused cooperation. The paper tore, the tape twisted, and Jeeny, sitting on the couch nearby, laughed quietly, the sound like soft bells in the hush of the night.

Jeeny: “Claire Danes once said — ‘I used to have nightmares when I was a little kid that I woke up prematurely and opened all the Christmas presents. And then I would be so relieved when I woke up and realized that I hadn't done it.’”
Jack: “That’s adorable. Terrifyingly adorable.”
Jeeny: “It’s more than that. It’s about timing — about the fear of taking joy before it’s ready.”
Jack: “You mean the fear of ruining magic by touching it too soon.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. The human disease of impatience.”

Host: The fire popped, sending a brief spray of sparks up the chimney. The smell of pine mixed with candle wax and the faint sweetness of cinnamon, and for a moment, the room felt suspended — a snow globe of stillness.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? We spend our whole lives chasing happiness, and when it’s close enough to touch, we panic — afraid of spoiling it.”
Jeeny: “Because deep down, we don’t trust joy. We think it’s fragile. Like opening the gift too early might make it disappear.”
Jack: “Or maybe we’ve just learned that nothing lasts. Even Christmas morning.”
Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes it beautiful? The shortness of it?”
Jack: “You make it sound poetic. I call it cruel.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her hands clasped around a mug of cocoa, the steam curling up like a soft prayer. Her eyes glimmered in the firelight — not just from warmth, but from memory.

Jeeny: “When I was eight, I did it. I actually opened one gift early — just a small one. My mom found me, and I remember how she didn’t yell. She just looked… sad. Like I’d stolen something invisible.”
Jack: “The waiting?”
Jeeny: “The wonder. The moment that wasn’t ready yet.”
Jack: “So the nightmare Claire Danes had — it’s not about presents. It’s about losing wonder before you even get to feel it.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. The tragedy of curiosity outpacing gratitude.”

Host: The wind howled faintly outside, brushing against the window, as if reminding them that some things — like seasons and emotions — can’t be hurried. Jack looked at the fire, his reflection trembling in the glass, his voice lower now, softer.

Jack: “You know, I think adults do that all the time. We open our presents early — just not the wrapped kind.”
Jeeny: “What do you mean?”
Jack: “We rush moments. Love, success, forgiveness. We unwrap them before they’re ready — before we’re ready. Then we wonder why they don’t feel like gifts anymore.”
Jeeny: “That’s… painfully true.”
Jack: “We’re a culture of premature celebrations. We crave arrival so badly that we forget the journey is the real gift.”
Jeeny: “Or maybe we fear the waiting because waiting feels like being forgotten.”

Host: The firelight flickered, catching on Jack’s face, revealing something deeper — not sadness exactly, but that quiet ache of someone who’s unwrapped too many things too soon, only to find them empty.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that one Christmas when everything felt perfect?”
Jack: “Yeah. I remember thinking it wouldn’t last. And that ruined it faster than anything else could have.”
Jeeny: “That’s it — the curse of awareness. Kids don’t know how fragile joy is. Adults can’t stop reminding themselves.”
Jack: “So maybe the dream Claire talked about — the relief when she woke up — that’s the dreamer realizing: ‘Thank God, the wonder’s still intact.’”
Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what growing up really is — learning how not to break the gift before you’ve earned it.”

Host: The fire softened, its flames lower now, steady, like a heartbeat winding down to peace. The room glowed, the kind of warm glow that feels borrowed from memory — familiar yet fleeting.

Jack: “You know, when I was little, I used to sneak peeks too. I’d find where my parents hid the gifts. One year I even found the big one — the bike. And I remember the disappointment when I saw it early. It wasn’t surprise anymore — just fact.”
Jeeny: “And facts don’t sparkle.”
Jack: “No. They don’t. It’s funny — truth gives you clarity, but it also takes away wonder.”
Jeeny: “So the trick is learning to hold both — the truth and the wonder.”
Jack: “That’s balance, I guess. Or grace.”

Host: The rain had turned to snow again, each flake glowing faintly under the streetlamp outside. The clock ticked softly, its hands creeping toward midnight — toward the promise of morning.

Jeeny: “You ever think life is just one long Christmas Eve?”
Jack: “You mean — the waiting?”
Jeeny: “The anticipation. The hope. The wanting to see what’s next but knowing you’re not supposed to peek.”
Jack: “And the relief that comes when you wake up and realize the story isn’t over yet.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe that’s what Claire’s dream really meant — that even when we ruin something in our minds, we get another chance to wake up and start again.”
Jack: “A second chance to wait well.”
Jeeny: “And to remember that joy is never late — only perfectly timed.”

Host: The fire dimmed, and the room settled into a hush so deep it felt almost holy. The snow outside thickened, muffling every sound but their breathing — slow, steady, synchronized.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny? Maybe the nightmare wasn’t about doing the wrong thing. Maybe it was about being afraid that innocence can’t survive curiosity.”
Jeeny: “But maybe it can — if we learn to open life gently.”
Jack: “You mean, to unwrap moments with patience?”
Jeeny: “Yes. To savor the gift instead of owning it.”
Jack: “You make it sound spiritual.”
Jeeny: “It is. Every unopened gift is faith waiting to happen.”

Host: The fire burned low, the final embers glowing, small and steady — the kind of light that doesn’t demand attention, only gratitude. Jeeny stood, walked to the window, and for a moment, watched the snow, her reflection blending with the falling flakes, as if she belonged to both the inside and the outside world.

Jack joined her, their faces side by side in the glass, framed by light and shadow, by youth and memory.

Jeeny: “It’s almost midnight.”
Jack: “Yeah.”
Jeeny: “You think it’s okay to open one gift early?”
Jack: “Only if you promise to still be surprised.”
Jeeny: “I can do that.”

Host: They both laughed softly, that tired, honest laughter that lives somewhere between nostalgia and hope. The snow kept falling, gentle, endless, each flake a reminder that time is both fleeting and forgiving.

And as the clock struck twelve, they didn’t move —
they just stood there, watching the snow become morning,
grateful for what was still unopened,
and for the relief of knowing
that wonder,
for now,
was still intact.