It’s
difficult to write about Christmas without being sentimentally cliché. Season of giving, families gathering, peace
and joy, etc. It’s also difficult in
many ways to avoid being cynical about holiday stress, materialism and
overindulgence. So, in an attempt to
avoid all of that, I starting thinking about Christmas and what else might be
said about it.
The idea I
keep coming back to is this- I love Christmas.
I love the lights and the shopping and the wrapping and the cookies and
the snow and the anticipation and the whole package. It makes me happy. And, god bless them, my family has always
made Christmas a special, happy time and, as my grandmother pointed out to me,
our family has been gathering in the same general way for the past 60 years, tacking
on kids, spouses and grandkids as they happen along. The details have evolved and developed over
that time; the gathering spot, the food and the rules for the Yankee Swap may
be different from year to year, but the sentiment is the same. And each year on Christmas morning, we have
been blessed with an overabundance of generosity.
For me (and
my brothers in particular), the gift-getting was the huge focus throughout our
childhood. I know my parents spent a
good deal of time shopping for gifts they knew we would love, making sure the
three of us were equally spoiled, and hiding them where they knew prying eyes
were least likely to sneak a look. But
now, looking back, the gifts are the least important part. That’s not to say they weren’t wonderful and
exciting and so so so special. There are
certain gifts that I will never forget opening (ie. strawberry lip balm from
The Body Shop that all my friends had, circa 1992- amazing!), but when I look
back at Christmas the exact items are not what stays solidly etched in memory.
It is the
feeling I get when I remember Christmas as a child. My dad slowly and precisely turning the pages
as he read The Polar Express. The cool green linoleum of the kitchen floor
of my grandmother’s house as we ran through to the dining room for dinner. The thrilling anticipation of sneaking down the
stairs with my brothers at 3 am on Christmas morning to peek at the haul from
Santa. Trying to see how much whip cream
you could get away with spraying on your apple pie. The Johnny Mathis Christmas CD on repeat. The embarrassed pride I felt when my parents
gushed over the gifts we bought them at the elementary school holiday fair, (ornaments
made out of popsicle sticks, anyone?).
Thinking
about these things, and the thousand other Christmas memories I have that are
jogged back to mind every year when I see the popsicle ornaments that have
survived, makes me think about my own kids and what their memories will
be. Because I think that is why Christmas
makes people so happy. For one day you
get to be that kid you were, opening presents, believing in magic, carefree and
overjoyed. On Christmas, if only for a
few hours, you can set aside those distractions that normally plague you, and
not think about bills or unemployment or divorce or laundry or the price of
gas. Granted, you may have to cook for a
houseful of people, or drive three hours to make it to your in-laws, or regret
that there isn’t more under the tree for those that deserve it. But I know for me, being able to focus on
that childish happiness, and helping to create the same sense of wonder for my
kids, is what makes it what it is.
I may not
have avoided cliché, but what the heck.
Merry Christmas.
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