We packed away the final ornament and as soon as I turned my back, I heard the attic door slam and my heart deflated a little.
The older I
get, the more faded the details from my past – the depth of time between now
and then slowly dissolving details that were once clear. Like classmates’
names, birthday parties, the expansive layout of our ranch-style home in Oak
Forrest. But there are memories that still stand solid – so precious, they have
withstood the test of time, molded with the same magic and awe that accompanied
them many years ago.
I remember every Christmas.
There
weren't lists of meaningful family traditions per se, but I remember feeling
like I was lit from within at Christmastime. I felt extra tucked-in. Safe.
Warm. It was the best of everything.
Being a
parent myself, I realize just how much work it must have been for my dad –
hiding gifts, touring the neighborhood lights, visiting family, picking out a fresh cut tree and keeping it watered, and the deliberate effort of creating what he wanted me to feel --
special. He didn’t bake, decorate gingerbread men, or doll me up for
professional photos with Santa. But still, it was special – not just for him,
but for me. And that’s ink on the pages of both of our stories.
There’s a
reason I remember childhood Christmases so vividly and hold a candle to them as
well. Those storybook memories hold the broken ones together – like the year my
mother died, when we lost every penny we had to theft, or the times things
didn’t make much sense – but they carved deep grooves in my character. They
etched the great worth of family, friends, and good health into my soul.
December continues
to open the wardrobe door to a magical other world. The very essence of
childhood – a sense of wonder, imagination, the innocent belief in possibility,
creativity – so many of the things that gradually wane with age are always at
their prime this time of year.
I want my
kids to somehow experience that intangible feeling that something special is
underway. I'm both desperate for it and I hate it. I fight the shine even as I
fork over money for new stuff – toys, toys toys, and a fancy vacuum system with
its own remote control.
I tell myself we'll lounge around and eat like kings, or maybe like the judges on Master Chef. I categorize a three-columned grocery list and burn a three-wick candle. I bake things. I buy a new puzzle. I build gingerbread houses with a 2- and 5-year old and pretend it's not frustrating at all.
I tell myself we'll lounge around and eat like kings, or maybe like the judges on Master Chef. I categorize a three-columned grocery list and burn a three-wick candle. I bake things. I buy a new puzzle. I build gingerbread houses with a 2- and 5-year old and pretend it's not frustrating at all.
I am writing
their books. And while they might not remember the designer painted walls of
their nursery or the framed art that hangs across from the crib, I am doing
everything possible to ensure they’ll remember the magic and wonder of
traditions that draw us closer – a time of year that finishes the common
stitches of our everyday memories with fine handiwork and colorful thread that
won’t be forgotten.
We are the
author of their storybook, moms and dads, writing memories and elements of
their character every day. Make it meaningful. Give them wonder.
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