Following is the conversation that my otherwise perfect husband and I have had every year since the dawn of time, and which it is quite likely we will continue to have until I. Get. My. Way.:
"We always opened them at midnight."
"Nope. Christmas morning is the way to go."
"But it was so great."
"Christmas morning. It has to be the morning."
"But when we were kids, we'd have this huge dinner and go to sleep at about nine and then the grown-ups would wake us up at like 11:30 by somehow managing to make noise on the roof—noise meant to evoke Santa and his reindeer—and we'd all run out to see if Santa had eaten his snack. And the snack was always eaten, but he never drank the milk and we finally figured out it's because the grown-ups in my family hated milk. Then we'd get to do the whole stocking thing, and open up our presents, and then we'd go back to sleep, and sleep really late Christmas morning, and when we woke up my mom would have a big old thing of Spam fried rice waiting."
"And then when we got older, we'd go to midnight Mass and then come home and open our gifts, and then we'd go to sleep, and sleep really late Christmas morning, and when we woke up my mom would have a big old thing of Spam fried rice waiting."
"Sleep late. Spam fried rice!"
Here is where I flare my nostrils in classic Pinay-style and emit a half-snort/half-grunt that is, in fact, the sound of defeat.
I'm biding my time for now, sure. But one day, the Insane Clown Posse (that would be my three daughters—remember?) and I shall band together to insist that Montes holiday traditions be revered; held up to the light and admired for their genius and pure sparkle. Let's put it this way: he may be able to tolerate the sound of one female shrieking, "Sleep late. Spam fried rice!" but four? I think not.