I haven’t decorated for Christmas in years except for the top three feet of our artificially lighted fir. Just a handful of plastic ornaments and a cheap star are all the decorations I’m willing to spare at the expense of my rambunctious, young sons.
I can’t bear the thought of them launching my grandma’s ancient bulbs across the living room, shattering a piece of her memory into extinction. So in order for a sliver of Christmas cheer, and my kids to coexist, I grudgingly leave most of our home bare and long for the year we can cherish the decorations I hold dear.
Most of my decorations have been in storage with my parents for years, patiently waiting for my kids to outgrow their boisterousness.
But it hit me this year, by the time they have, they will have also outgrown their magic. They’ll no longer appreciate them through the sparkling eyes of a child. I don’t want to wait until my kids are older to decorate inside. I want to celebrate the magic while they’re young. Decorations and all.
And COVID has given me the motivation to expedite my cause by canceling all the festivities that usually balance our lack thereof at home.
On a whim one night, I loaded up my boys and headed to my parents’ to salvage some holiday joy. My mom busied them with a mountain of treats in the kitchen while I snuck down to sift through old boxes of decorations in the basement.
Lifting the lids, I could smell my parents’ old house, the one we grew up in. I found our collection of Christmas mugs and the carousel snow globe that plays Silent Night.
I wound it up and the music transported me to their old kitchen. I could see my siblings sipping cocoa and smell the sauce my mom was stirring on the stove. I could hear the dogs run excitedly to the door signaling my dad was home just in time for dinner.
This is what had been missing. It wasn’t just a fully embellished tree or even the decorations themselves. It was the nostalgia and unboxing these memories year after year.
I could feel every Christmas spent with my family in those boxes. And I realized my parents had spared no destruction or hassle at the expense of making memories for their kids.
I remembered the year they spilled ashes out of the fireplace, chewed up a carrot, and made sleigh tracks in the snow.
I remembered driving with my dad to cut down a tree, my runny nose and frozen tears in the woods, and him playing Big Girls Don’t Cry on the way home.
I remembered fully accessorizing that tree and the decorations we were allowed to admire.
Each box I opened had memories that longed to be shared. Beautiful, messy memories forgotten in my attempt to preserve them.
I got excited imagining my kids’ faces light up as they watch the carousel glimmer at our own table. Maybe they would break some of it, but not before pieces of our holiday history were passed down. And from this night on, we’d be adding our own.
By the time my car was loaded, my dad had joined them in the kitchen. They were all smiling ear to ear. There was an air of enchantment wrapped around the whole evening.
My parents got time with their grandkids and the satisfaction of knowing their decorations would once again be cherished through the eyes of a child. And I left fueled by warm memories, inspired to make new ones with my boys.
This is a year for new traditions but old traditions too. When my kids look back on this Christmas, maybe they won’t dwell on what they missed. Someday they’ll unbox the decorations that survived their horseplay and they’ll remember the night they ate a bowl of whipped cream with sprinkles in their grandparents’ kitchen.
Maybe they’ll wind up the carousel and imagine they can see their grandma standing by her stove and hear the dogs bark as their grandpa walks in the door.
