My family celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve, once I no longer believed in Santa. I can date that liberating disillusionment pretty exactly.

It was the year I had a burning desire for s battery-operated bulldozer that was manned by robot driver when robots were very much in vogue. In retrospect it was an idiotic one-trick toy that was almost surely overpriced and presumably heavily hyped, the better to inflame the passion of the gullible, like me.

A few days before Christmas I was hunting my mom and opened the door to her bedroom. She was seated on her bed surrounded by wrapping paper and presents and ribbon. She yelled at me to get out and I retreated, but not before having seen a box with a picture of the bulldozer on its side.

I was non-plussed at having been harshly ejected, elated at the presence of the bulldozer, but surprised it was being wrapped by my mom since I had asked Santa for it. And then the penny dropped.

Naturally I was sort of grudgingly grateful that my parents, all parents, maintained this sweet fiction, but at the same time I was rather crestfallen to discover those same nice people were participating in an elaborate hoax. (Years later I managed to persuade my daughter she had heard reindeer hooves on the roof, so I had joined the conspiracy.)

Still, I didn’t let on that I knew the folks were the source of Santa’s largesse. I pretended to be surprised when I unwrapped the bulldozer. In a weird role reversal, I didn’t want to spoil their fun with the truth. I also soon realized that Kris Kringle wasn’t the only hoax. The bulldozer turned out to be a very punk excuse for a toy.

By the time the next Christmas rolled around, I had let it be known that I was in on the scam and by common consent the opening of presents moved to the eve of the big day. This had several advantages.

My mother always told me I had been born at two minutes to midnight, and she ought to have known. She attributed to this time of arrival the fact that I have always been a night owl, apt to stay up as late as possible and to sleep in as long as permitted. Therefore, not having to grope bleary-eyed to Christmas festivities at dawn suited my internal clock just fine.

It also was hard on my Dad to get up early since for many years he worked second or third shifts. His sleep cycle was odd enough without holiday disruptions. And my mom had no interest in rising early on the rare occasions a day off appeared. Furthermore, no one in the family was a churchgoer except my grandmother and shifting Christmas to the Eve suited her.

A tradition was born. And added to. Everybody in the family loved shellfish, but it was a rare and expensive luxury in those lean years. We began to schedule a feast of shrimp, crab legs or lobster, whichever could be had at the best price, on Christmas Eve, followed by the unveiling.

That left all of Christmas Day free to do nothing. My grandmother would toddle off to church, then whip up a roast chicken or turkey with mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, corn or peas. We’d play with our toys, maybe watch a TV special or an old holiday movie, try not to rub each other the wrong way and practice peace and good will on earth.

When kids entered the picture it was necessary to revert to the Santa schedule until they wised up. But as soon as they did, it was back to seafood and booty on Christmas Eve, movies and torpor on Christmas Day.

Now after all these years later, I think back with some sorrow on aspects of those Christmases. They were often fraught with silliness brought on by their commercial nature. Daniel Boorstin has styled our capitalist holidays “Festivals of Consumption,” and that isn’t always pretty.

My mother and grandmother competed to run the show and to have bought the best presents, which tended to put me in a crossfire. For my part, I always felt my Dad got shortchanged. My mother and grandmother were easy to buy for, but he was tough. His presents were often utilitarian — socks and shirts and pajamas which would have been bought anyway. I felt bad about that, but he was extremely self-sufficient, the least materialistic guy imaginable who genuinely didn’t want much of anything.

The older I get, the smarter he looks. The real present was being together, sharing a day or two and celebrating the holiday in a way we had evolved that suited us. So this evening, I will eat seafood and then enjoy people I care about unwrapping things they want. We will wind up plumper and surrounded by tattered wrapping paper.

Whatever tradition you embrace, enjoy it and the people you love. We aren’t here for long and too rarely pause to just enjoy each other. We say that’s what it’s all about, but don’t always act that way. Here’s a chance.

Lagniappe: The holiday films I look out for include some old nostalgic favorites from my parents’ era and a few more recent classics.

“Holiday Inn” with Bing and Fred and “White Christmas.”

“Meet Me In St. Louis” with Judy singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

“Christmas in Connecticut” with Stanwyck as a Martha Stewart-like columnist trying to keep the secret that she is a fraud when the boss invites himself for Christmas dinner.

“Remember the Night” with Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray. She’s a shoplifter and he’s the prosector trying to put her in jail, but the trial is postponed and he winds up taking her home for the holidays. Impossible, but written by Preston Sturges so just go with it.

“A Christmas Carol,” the Alistair Sim version.

“We’re No Angels” with Bogie, Ustinov, Basil Rathbone and Devil’s Island.

“Pocketful of Miracles” with Glenn Ford as gangster Dave the Dude and Betty Davis as Apple Annie, his good luck charm. Capra’s last film.

“A Christmas Story,” the modern classic with Ralphie desperate for a BB gun — “You’ll shoot your eye out!”

“Scrooged,” the Bill Murray over the top Christmas Carol.

“Home for the Holidays” with Holly Hunter, Robert Downey Jr., Anne Bancroft, Charles Durning as a dysfunctional family. What a cast.

“The Ref,” with burglar Dennis Leary trying to make his getaway and forced to take a feuding couple hostage (Kevin Spacey and the great Judy Davis) and act as marriage counsellor. A cynical, surreal version of “It’s a Wonderful Life” with Leary as the angel.

“Love, Actually.” I know, but it still hooks me.

“The Apartment,” the aggressively unsentimental Billy Wilder does Christmas.