The first tree I drew in school was a coconut palm, since maples and oaks were foreign to me. Living in Miami, my sister and I played outside year-round, perhaps donning a light sweater in what Northerners called the dead of winter.

My parents had been born in New York City, so the lack of ice and snow in Florida caused them great merriment. No more battling with children as they were stuffed into snowsuits, and no more clearing sidewalks with a gigantic shovel. They loved telling the relatives up north the temperature on Christmas Day would reach the 80s.

My parents steadfastly maintained the traditions of their Italian ancestors, which meant a seafood feast on Christmas Eve, featuring shrimp cocktails, linguine with clam sauce, and a pan of oddly-named-but-delicious fish called smelts. The next day’s meal started with a hearty antipasto platter, followed by my mom’s amazing homemade manicotti and meatballs.

On Christmas Day, my mom bustled around in the kitchen, the bells on her holiday apron ringing softly, while my sister and I examined our gifts. One year, these included stuffed animals, paper dolls and a board game.

As we ate chocolates from our stockings, we discussed the various ways we might spend the fortune our aunt had sent us. After all, $10 went a long way in the five-and-dime store, where we had just scored an authentic diamond necklace for our mom for only one dollar.

Before long, the doorbell rang, and in came the parade of aunts, uncles and cousins. The ladies wore Christmas corsages, which consisted of miniature pinecones awash in glitter and tiny ornaments fastened with a festive bow. My father wore Bermuda shorts, so the photos we sent to the relatives up North would reveal the paradise we now inhabited.

The kids often carried toys they had received that morning, hoping to use them as bartering chips to play with our gifts. This ploy never worked, however, since my sister and I closely guarded our presents.

“Keep your hands off!” I warned a younger cousin when he reached for a stuffed animal. Even when he burst into tears, I remained adamant, because he couldn’t be trusted with my treasures.

When it was time to eat, the kids were sequestered at their own table, where we could wreak havoc without ruining the adults’ enjoyment. Not surprisingly, there were shouts, a sea of spilled milk and an avalanche of crumbs emanating from our domain, but the adults didn’t interfere unless they heard screaming.

After dessert, the kids raced outside to transform themselves into horses, galloping around the key lime and banana trees. Meanwhile, the adults drank espresso spiked with anisette, munched on roasted chestnuts and talked about whatever it was old people found interesting.

When dusk settled in, the visitors said their goodbyes, climbed into their cars and headed off. My sister and I rushed over to the Christmas tree to make sure the cousins hadn’t played with anything behind our backs. When everything was accounted for, we breathed big sighs of relief.

Then came my favorite part of the day, when I would lie beneath the tree, gazing upwards at the bubble lights. I cupped the Baby Jesus from the manger in my hands and imagined holding the real Infant in my arms.

I would kiss the downy hair on his head and breathe in the scent of innocence. I would let him play with all my toys if he wanted to.

I would return Baby Jesus carefully to the manger and pick up the donkey and the ox. He had given us all the animals in the world, plus the moon and stars and the sea. There was nothing I had that didn’t come from him.

I recalled what the sisters at school had told us about Christmas being one big love story. They said God had sent the Christ Child as a gift to the world. They said God loved this Baby with all his heart, but he still gave him to us.

I gazed at the crucifix I wore on a chain around my neck. So many scary things had happened to God’s son, things no father would want to happen to a child. Still, I knew Jesus had done everything out of love, and the story had a happy ending.

He came to us gently as an infant surrounded by the animals, but there was no gentleness in the way I acted at Christmas. I realized I was selfish and mean when it came to sharing my gifts. Still, I truly wanted to change — so that year, under the tree,

I closed my eyes and pretended I held the sweet Infant in my arms. I told him, “Next year, I promise I’m going to let the cousins play with my presents. I don’t even care if they break them. That will be my gift to you because I want you to know I love you with all my heart.”