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When I was young, I was taken to a family of giants every Christmas Eve.

It wasn't that I was short. The sleeves and pant legs on my matching outfits actually rode up quite a bit. But my cousin - almost a teenager when I was five - towered over me and almost everyone else in the family, except his own father.

He had at least three feet on me. The knot in my stomach as I stared up at him reminded me of the one I got when my great-uncle roared traditional German drinking songs.

But then the cousin scooped me up at the bottom of my grandmother's staircase, swung me a few feet forward and dropped me onto a high step. Now we were even.

Over my head, garland flowed and raccoon ornaments hung from the ceiling, stretching from the kitchen to the living room and onto the tabletop tree. (Grandma Cave had a thing for raccoons.)

It was one of the few times my brother and I saw our six cousins all in one place. My mom always dressed me in a red velvet dress trimmed with white lace, black patent leather shoes and white tights. The only thing I liked more than my matching red velvet purse was my light pink faux fur coat, which I later outgrew in size and color preference.

Back at home, I lobbied to sleep in front of the fire and wait for Santa, but my parents argued that we needed to extinguish the flames if he were going to slide down.

The next day, after discovering treasures, giving some away and going to Mass, we headed to my maternal grandmother's house, where a turkey and a visiting aunt from Virginia awaited. I behaved myself until after dinner, when I grew floppy ears and became a dog, crawling under the dining room table.

Years later, my aunt brought with her two actual canines, which became my surrogate pets twice a year. When I hit middle school, she brought an infant.

And I became the giant.

(12/23/10)[[In-content Ad]]

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