My first memory of Christmas, I’m probably three years old. It’s Christmas Eve in our Boston apartment. I walk into the living room and the tree is lit. There are presents everywhere—piled high, spilling out from under the tree. Teddy Ruxpin is talking. There’s a beautiful dollhouse. I don’t know how much of this I actually remember and how much comes from the photos, but it doesn’t really matter. The feeling is real.