You know that song by the Talking Heads that goes, “You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?”

That’s how I felt waking up this Christmas morning — for the first time, not at home. There have been Christmases with relatives and a few moves along the way, but every year since my very first one, I’ve woken up amongst family. I was home over breaks during college and even the year after, I’d moved back in.

So although I was here in Houston, it marked the first time that I would pack up presents and drive to my parents’ house — and I found myself feeling rather guest-like.

Admittedly, it was kind of nice, having mimosas and warm biscuits ferried to me by my siblings as if I were some sort of rarely seen relative, but it was also kind of weird. Or at least, entirely unfamiliar.

For the first time, I wasn’t up first, herding my family around in an always futile attempt to get the show on the road.

Instead, I arrived with my recently relocated manpanion in tow (also his first Christmas away from home), with gifts each signed from the two of us.

How did I get here??

It seems still recent that my now-deceased grandmother was needle pointing the final stocking in the family collection that hangs on our mantle — for the birth of my now 14-year-old, youngest sister.

That piece of holiday handiwork — dated 1997 — is, at least, a reminder that I’m not the only one who’s left kid-dom. The kid I thought would always be a kid is suddenly, shockingly, a long-legged, burgeoning ingénue who's abandoned jeans and T-shirts for dresses and ballet flats faster than she learned to walk.

I guess the rapidity of her own progression makes me feel better, if only slightly, about how swiftly my life seems to have flown — from being an oblivious kid who still put carrots out for The Claus’ reindeer (I was told Mister and Mrs. Claus traveled together) — to one half of just another pair A-holes, babe-ing our way through the holidays.

Two A-Holes buy a Christmas Tree: