Christmas from the other side ….and, thankfully, its not the “dark side,” but adulthood.

Listening to: 18th Floor Balcony, by Blue October

So, my favorite time of year is here. Despite all the pain of the past year, the lights are up on houses all around, there is a clog of cars for the mile around every mall, and every shop markets its wares as the “perfect gift.” I admit that sometimes I feel wide awake and full of life, other times, driving around the corner can be the hardest thing I can imagine, but I make it, again.

I am left to reflect on past Christmases as I see the familiar, and the differences, for myself, in the current one.

At the toy store, I see the Playmobil barn, and remember getting it myself at the age of four or five, creeping out early on Boxing Day and seeing my parents play with it, giggling at the idea. I see our tree, loaded down with ornaments, and think of other trees, of friends and family we have spent times with. I realize why the holidays can be so hard for one struggling with loss, recent or long past. But I am not; no, I am fine. This post is not to complain, but to talk of the life that I see.

To talk of my little brother, age five, who gets so excited about every aspect of the holidays, and who, for the first time, is counting down the days to the big day. To talk of preparations necessary in a big family: people sneaking in the door with boxes under coats, bags of presents hidden in nooks and crannies, people screamed at for poking around in closets. Everyone in our family is buying for two others; we discuss who is getting who what and whether so and so will like this and whether you and I can come together to get this large item for someone else.

Cookies are baking, being frosted, and eaten as quickly. Piles of food appear in grocery bags, the fridge is full, the roast beast defrosting. We assemble our Sunday best for the afternoon at Grandma’s house, and the ensuing drive to see lights, ice cream, and then, for myself, the real pinnacle: midnight mass. Known for wonderful carols and young children asleep in pews, this family tradition stretches back as far as I can remember – back to the days when I was the one with blonde head nestled on coats, sound asleep on hard wood.

Now, I am making lists and planning on filling the stockings. Now, I am making budgets and sneaking piles of goodies through the door. I am one of the ones driving kids around town to finish buying gifts. The one standing in line at WalMart the day before Christmas Eve. Then one in traffic. The one doing the real work involved in baking (the washing and kneading, as opposed to the frosting). Yet, maybe it’s okay: after all, I am the one who gets to view the gasps and bright eyes, still dotted with a crust of ‘sleep,’ and mouths chattering excitedly. I get to decide what cookies are being made, and know who is getting what exactly. I will be awake to enjoy all the carols at Mass, to see the candles, lift up my prayers.

After all, this is good preparation. Who knows when I’ll need to employ the skills I am nurturing, with my own children? After all, hiding presents, juggling cookie batches, choosing stores, filling stockings, cooking a roast beast and half a dozen other dishes: these things are not a science, but an art.