There is nothing wrong with Christmas

When I was a wee-lad, my earliest memories of Christmas are all pretty much the same. I would usually be the first awake, being an only child. No brothers or sisters to compete with to be the first out of bed. It was usually a long morning, Christmas, waiting for my parents to awaken and get the festivities going. I would peek out my bedroom door, hoping to see into the living room, a chance to spy any of the hopefully mounds of presents left. Usually, I could see nothing.

Each Christmas was my favorite, always replacing the one the year before. The anticipation would kill me, mostly because I would awaken at 4:00AM, at which point my parents would tell me to go back to bed, it was too early. I would grudgingly do so, only to toss and turn, alternately staring at the clock by my bed or the ceiling, silently willing my parents to WAKE UP.

Around 7:00AM, they would call out “Okay, you can get up now!” at which point I would bound out of bed and dash for the living room with shouts of “WALK in the house. WALK!” from my Mother. Walk? HA! Away, women, there be presents to revel in! And stockings to empty! And, and, and…

The coffee had to be brewed. Mom would allow not a single present to be touched until she had a fresh cup of java sitting by her chair. But that was fine, as the young boy I once was had taken up position in front of the tree, counting the presents, ranking them in order of merry unwrapping, saving the biggest box for last. Without touching them, trying to discern which presents were mine, which were my parents, and which we would bundle to the car to take to Grandma and Grandpas house later that morning.

It usually began with a picture. Either Mom or Dad would have me standing in front of the tree, all the presents gleaming and shinning under the electric lights decorating the tree. Torture, which is a parents prerogative I suppose, but hardly an activity to bring my level of excitement down.

My parents had little money. With only one working parent, my father, and a crippled mother who could do little outside the home, there was surprisingly always a generous amount of presents. Santa Claus was not restrained by money, you see, and while there was never more than one expensive toy under the tree, the volume of other, less expensive by very much appreciated presents filled the room.

The few ugly wrapped presents were, by no ones surprise, the presents I had wrapped for my mom and dad. Those would be handed out once I had opened half the gifts for me. Their rule, not mine. The gifts I had purchased for them were never expensive, but always heartfelt. They were always items I knew, just KNEW, that my parents would enjoy. And of course they did.

Once all the presents were opened, the stuffing of wrapping paper into trash bags would begin. This was a task for Dad and I. The crunch of paper, the tape sticking to the side of the garbage bag, the trying to stuff now empty boxes of opened presents into the bag without causing a rip. A tradition mostly forget about, but one I strangely enjoyed as a child. The garbage bag would be full, almost impossible to close, but I would then take it out back to the trash pile. A huge bag, twice my own side, but weighing almost nothing. It always made me feel strong to carry such an overstuffed large bag by myself.

Then it was time, the best of time. Play with presents! The only problem here was which to play with first. I knew that I only had a few hours, at most, before it was time to go to Grandmas house to meet with the rest of the family.

The call would usually come before it was time to leave. Mark Wood, now Thornton, would call and each of us would discuss all the goodies we had received. Mostly it was different items, but at times we would receive the same gift. He had no father, and his Mom was a little strange in that she would not let him open presents too early, but Mark would still call to find out everything I got. Nothing is better than telling a best bud about all the goodies you opened just a few hours before, reliving the magic once again. It was true for the both of us.

Time to visit the relatives. My Fathers family lived all over the country, so we never saw any of them, just my Mothers side of the family. Which was large. Grandma had eight children, my Mom the third youngest. The flow of presents there was always large with so many people. I would usually be able to bring with me at least one of my smaller presents. That was to play with until it was time, usually hours later, when the new presents would be unwrapped. While I loved the day at the grandparents, it was never as much fun as being home. Looking back now, I wish I could return to that time and place, even if just once. The feeling of joy and happiness was fantastic, the feeling of belonging and being safe and loved. In a family that argued amongst themselves as my Mothers siblings did, it was usually the one day a year when they would all come together and try, really hard, not to fight. (And really, looking back and knowing my Mom, she was one of the biggest instigators of fights, being as opinionated as she was, and hardly ever admitting she was wrong. Thankfully, that has changed some over the years.)

Most presents received at the grandparents were never as good as the ones waiting for me at home. They got better as I got older, as my uncle Pat or Ken would make me a mix tape, a big thing when you are thirteen-years-old with a new Boom Box at home. Still, the feeling of belonging, being with relatives, and the sound of laughter would fill the house, making it special.

My Grandpa died in 1984, making the next two Christmas’s a little less joyful. He was a quiet and stern man, not one to partake much in the enjoyment of the day. So eventually, while he was loved and missed dearly, the Christmas tradition returned to a sense of normalcy by the late 1980’s at Grandmas house. I was older, but there was more children present, younger than I. That helped, I think, create a mood and atmosphere of normalcy during the holiday season.

When Grandma passed away in 1996, however, nothing would ever be the same. I was married, though it was in a downward spiral. My first daughter was two, so my Christmas was more about her than anything else. While today she does not remember my grandma, I at least know she spent two there and became, in my mind at least, a part of that tradition.

Now I have three daughters, the youngest two-years-old next summer, and the traditions are different but no less important or special than when I was a child. Because both my wife and I were married prior, and have a child each from those marriages, allowances have to be made. My daughter and her daughter have to spend time with the other parent and their families, while still having Christmas here at home, at my parents, and at my wife’s parent’s home. They then get whisked away, to repeat the process with the other side of their family. My wife and I have Brooke all day, and don’t have to share her with anyone, now or ever.

I worry what the kids’ memories will be about Christmas. Will it be memories of constant travel, spending less than two hours at any one home to celebrate? Will they remember the joy at each house, or will they simply remember how tiring the day was for them?

I hope they have as rich memories of Christmas when they were a child as both my wife and I do when we, too, were kids. The annual Christmas tree search every year in which we as a family go out and cut down a tree. The hours spent putting up all the decorations not only on the tree, but around the house as well. The anticipation of the big day. The watching of Christmas movies on television, or the singing of carols my wife leads the kids’ in. (I sing horribly, but I still partake.)

While many speak of the gradual commercialization of the holiday season, I don’t see it as any different than it ever has been. We just have more opportunities to hear about all the sales and sales figures, something as children we did not pay any attention to or care about. Perhaps as we get older, we also become more jaded about all the perceived negative aspects of this time of year, remembering a “better time” when we were kids and that special feeling we all had.

We think that the kids feel that as well, but they don’t. We fear that they won’t look back with fond and loving memories as we do now. I know I have that fear as well, but then I think that my kids don’t have my memories, they don’t know what it was like when I was a child. That the traditions of my youth are not the traditions of theirs. That the special moment of time for children during the holiday season is remembered more for the love and joy of family than it is anything else. I don’t really remember the time spent in the car driving to relatives house. When I look back to just last Christmas, all I have is a feeling of fun, enjoyment, and happiness, even if my oldest daughter was not with me the entire day. I knew she was having fun where she was, and that her memories and time spent with my ex-wife and her family will be just as important to her as the time she spends with me.

Christmas is not what it once was, but perhaps that is not a bad thing. Everything changes, not always for the better, but I believe and hope that the holiday season is what we make of it, not what the commercial aspects would make us feel. While I and every other parent feel the stress this time of year brings about, the lasting joy of this time of year will be what both my children and myself remember. As a parent, I know that the holiday season is about the kids, not me. My job is to simply provide the best as I can, teach them what they need to know, and let them be the kids they should be, not revealing any of my own fears that they will not have as rich or happy memories as I do. Because they will, as will we all.

For people without children, it means creating new traditions either alone or with a spouse. Just because someone has no children does not make the holiday season any less merry or important to them.

I wish you all a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Peace on Earth.