In the wise words of Elvis:

“I don’t need a lot of presents

to make my Christmas bright

I just need my babies’ arms

Wound around me tight

Oh, Santa, hear my plea

Santa bring my babies back to me”

OK. The King didn’t write this song, and I took a little liberty with the lyrics. But I think you get the point: It sure won’t seem like Christmas without my babies here.

I haven’t spent Christmas without a baby in 15 years. When our oldest was born, our Christmases started to befilled with candy, with bright and shiny toys. He was 4 when our youngest came along. Kids are so much fun at Christmas at this age.

But now our oldest is in high school, and our youngest just hit double digits. No one wants to go to breakfast with Santa. They’d rather sleep in. And you can imagine the cold stares I get when I ask if anybody wants to watch “Frosty.”

I know this didn’t happen overnight, but it sure seems like it. In the last six months, our oldest has grown taller than me, and our youngest has announced that he no longer believes in the Tooth Fairy — or Santa Claus.

I’ve tried my best to accept these changes and even embrace this new chapter in my life. A few weeks ago, I went through the bookshelf and pulled out a few things to share with friends who have younger children. But when I got to “There’s a Duck in My Closet,” “Go, Dog, Go!” and “Spot Bakes a Cake,” I just couldn’t stop crying. It’s not that they’re particularly sentimental titles. It’s just that they represent a story that I don’t want to end.

Apparently, I’m not the only one who is struggling with this. My father-in-law called a few weeks ago and said: “Do you think the boys would want to see Disney on Ice this year?” Poor guy.

I understand, even though I know it’s wrong to feel this way. After all, I probably wouldn’t like it much if my husband looked at me and said, “Oh, honey, I sure wish you were young again. You used to be so cute!”

Maybe that’s what this is really all about. Maybe it’s not about them getting old. Maybe it’s about me being told that I need bifocals. Maybe it’s about seeing more advertisements in my junk e-mail for Viagra and colon cleanser.

It didn’t help the other day when I ran into a student I had taught 10 years ago. He was married with two kids of his own. Both were dressed up in these cute little Christmas outfits, like the “Santa, I Can Explain” sweatshirts my boys have outgrown.

“Kids are so much fun at Christmas at this age,” I told him. “I’m jealous. My kids are old!”

He smiled sympathetically and said, “Do they still live here in town?”

(Apparently I needed to color my roots even more than I had imagined.)

“They still live with ME,” I shot back. “They’re only 10 and 14.”

It was only after I quit smarting from the perceived insult that I realized his comment had been a gift. Like it or not, my kids are going to leave home in a few years. The time is drawing near. I’ve finished a chapter, but it’s not the end of my family’s Christmas story. Even at this age, my kids still make me happy and fill my heart with joy.

It’s true that they no longer want to ride around looking at Christmas lights, but they don’t ask me to stand in line an hour at the mall to see Santa, either. At this stage in their lives, they already know they’d better not pout and better not cry. They’re no longer tiny tots with their eyes all aglow, but I don’t find it as hard to sleep at night.

Now that they’re older, they don’t ask me to play “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” or “I’m Getting Nothing for Christmas” on the CD player 107 times in a row. They’ll even tolerate a few of Elvis’ holiday tunes.

Kids are so much fun at Christmas at this age.

Contact Kim Grizzard at kgrizzard@reflector.com or (252) 329-9578.