scribblechic

There are three more days of school before we break for the holiday. Three days for last-minute gifts and groceries; time enough to plan a little magic in this, a new season, of joy.

Gone are the years of elaborate gingerbread houses, little fingers sticky with frosting and candy scattered to the far corners of progress. No longer do I wrap our packages with intricate bows or hide the seams of my wrapping by laboring over the folds with hot glue. I’ve stopped staging our home for a Christmas card, becoming almost reckless in my disregard for dramatic details.

In the beginning I was performing to the expectations of impossible standards to please my husband’s family and delight my children with a storybook fairytale. I thought I might preserve make-believe with carefully choreographed awe and excessive measures of enthusiasm. Except, I was exhausted by the work of performing a disingenuous act of joy.

I was raised with a simpler experience of magic, the company of loved ones and the smell of baked goods. I cannot remember a single gift, but I can close my eyes and remember the generosity of peace that marks my memories and the wealth of love made invaluable by time spent with family. I wish I had honored these traditions earlier, before I adopted the superficial demonstrations inherent in my husband’s memories.

Our children rallied against unhappy traditions, in want of simpler experiences almost as soon as they could speak their mind. Unimpressed with the decorative packaging that was my husband’s family’s hallmark, they hated the seams that would not tear beneath layers of glue. They bemoaned the nagging directives in sharp tones from grandparents who demanded they preserve each ribbon. They endured with sullen postures the formality of Christmas morning brunch; traditional foods set against pristine table cloths and heirloom quality place settings with little room for cheer.

For some time I tried to please both generations.

New traditions became apologies for patience. To drown out the demands of unwrapping gifts, I let my children scatter their mess with joy. We saved the ribbon but buried our floor beneath hastily torn wrapping paper. I packed away my china and snuck donuts onto countertops, a small concession for the menu of dreaded hash. I created a new dress code that restricted our children from properly dressing for the day and refused, myself, to change out of pajamas.

Little changes that acknowledged the brevity of childhood. Still misery found its way to our doorstep with sharp tongues and crude demonstrations of excess. So we tucked our happiness beneath tolerance and waited for each departure to relax into an uncomplicated contentment for simpler traditions. We swept away the wealth of material gifts for more charitable purposes and settled into play.

This year we have invited new guests to preserve a spirit of love that embraces less with gifts of mindfulness. Magic guarded by a menu of frivolous fun with a few special gifts wrapped with haste to be opened with abandon and cheer. Last minute festivities to linger across years of happier memories.

I’m still holding sacred gingerbread houses of Christmases past with gratitude for a less cluttered season of now.

Tagged: Christmas, Family, Musings, Traditions