Christmas had ended, and the children were all tucked away in the bedrooms for well-earned sleep. By children I mean my children, their spouses and all the grandchildren who come to Nana's house for a Christmas night sleepover and a morning after Christmas family gathering.

It has become an Amsden tradition. All the kids who are old enough pile into one bedroom, crowding on beds, making pallets on the floor or sharing a blow-up mattress. Parents choose an empty bedroom where they put the little guys in port-a-cribs or between mom and dad in the main bed. The tucking-in process is challenging, yet thrilling, as the whole gang gangs up on Christmas night.

Saying good night sounds like the closing of any episode of the Waltons. "Good night, John Boy" can go on for an extended time as brothers taunt sisters just for old time's sake and one brother must outlast the other brother just for macho sake. Mom, who is me, listens contently as the memory of days gone by is relived on one special evening each Christmas night.

Yesterdays — how the thoughts of them warm my soul. I remember the sweet little faces of my children that looked at me with love in their eyes. Yes, love in their eyes at all times. And did I mention that those small-fry charmers were always grateful for everything I ever did for them? Come to think of it, we probably were just like the Waltons: big family, lots of love and caring, every problem solved by the wisdom of the parents. Yep, that is how I remember yesterday.

Yesterdays — how they can tell any story we want them to tell. They are like novels, and we are their authors. Perhaps I might be just a little culpable for having rewritten the narrative of child rearing. However, the reality of today can have a wake-up call on the fantasy of yesterday.

On Christmas night, Lex awakened, unable to breathe. My son and daughter-in-law knocked on my bedroom door to ask me to come, look, listen and help them decide what to do. I think they thought that all my experience tending to children had made me a Ph.D. Expert that I was, I suggested that we wait and see if he would improve.

The night's vigil was long and morning brought no relief. Uncomfortable and unable to be comforted, Lex was sick. Early the next day, we took him to a walk-in clinic. The nurse practitioner (much closer to a Ph.D.) urged us to go to the emergency room. Children's Hospital in St. Louis was our destination.

Waiting rooms, examinations, lots of crying, real Ph.D.s, medicine, more crying, breathing treatments, long hours, lots more crying (this time from the adults), and Lex received the care he needed. About midnight, he was discharged and we headed back to Nana's house. All the other children and grandchildren had returned to their own homes. My son, daughter-in-law, and Lex live in California, so they were with me for several more nights. We fell into bed without the Walton ending.

That day was a reality check on yesterday's narrative. I really do know that life is not made up of the happy-ever-after fairy tale story. I really do know that life brings challenges for real people who have real needs. I really do know that; I remember that. I actually have never lost sight of reality. But one night, one time a year, I indulge myself in remembering yesterday through Christmas-colored glasses.

Patti Amsden is co-pastor of Son-Life Church in Collinsville.