Holiday magic is anything but

Lesson #24 of 40

As I approach 40, I’m embarking on a year-long project to reflect on the lessons I’ve learned in four decades of life. This is lesson #24. You can read the full series here.

Driving home with our too-big tree (Getty Images)

The morning after Thanksgiving, my family and I stood in the cold with a half-dozen other families, waiting for the neighborhood Christmas tree lot to open. We quickly picked out a tree, paid what felt like an exorbitant amount, strapped it to our car, and made the short drive home. The tree wound up being the right height but comically wide for our small living room. We shimmied it into the stand, trimmed a few branches, shuffled some furniture, and made it work.

Then, the real work began. We dug through the clutter in our shed to unearth four large storage bins of decorations. We dusted off those bins, heaved them into the house, and started unpacking everything. We reminded our daughter for the tenth time not to jump near the Christmas tree. We plugged in lights only to discover that half the strands didn’t work. Then, we split up duties — Billy braved Black Friday crowds to get more lights while I kept our kiddo entertained during the decorating delay. We put on holiday music. We strung up the new, working strands of lights. We pulled out boxes and boxes of ornaments, unwrapping, admiring, and making sure each one had its tiny hook. We supervised the hanging of the ornaments. We marveled at how long it takes to hang ornaments, especially on a too-wide tree. We swept up fallen pine needles. We crawled onto the floor to pour more water into the tree stand. We wiped up the spilled water. We swapped out regular tea towels for holiday tea towels. Regular mugs for holiday mugs. Regular candles for — you get it. We hung stockings and a wreath. We put the tiny pumpkins leftover from Thanksgiving into our compost bin. We said, really, no jumping. We plugged in our outdoor Christmas lights and discovered half of those weren’t working, either. We kicked ourselves for not checking all the lights before making a trip to the store.

All told, putting up Christmas decorations inside and outside our house spanned three days (and there’s still a bit more work to do outside). We probably could have knocked it out in two days — maybe one, if we didn’t have a young child — but Saturday was dominated by a trip to see Santa and Sunday held a long-awaited visit to the Atlanta Symphony Hall to watch the orchestra play Frozen. We squeezed in decorating where we could while also making time for holiday-themed side adventures. We did not get much else done. There are piles of laundry, unmade beds, and dishes that need to be put away. On top of everything else, I got an unfortunately timed UTI. (Is there ever a fortunate time? No.)

So here I am: physically uncomfortable, behind on work, surrounded by clutter and boxes — all those bins that haven’t yet returned to the shed, plus some early presents that have arrived — and wondering how in the heck it’s already December. How I’m already feeling behind on all things holiday season.

Holiday magic is anything but. All of that magic — the decorating, the shopping, the transporting to and from events, the keeping of traditions, the baking, the paying for everything — requires a ton of time, energy, and effort. But, as far as Christmas goes, we give all the credit to a mystical man in red and his team of elves. Even after the illusion of Santa is long gone, we keep the illusion of effortlessness alive. We continue the decorating and shopping and transporting and tradition-keeping and baking and paying for it all. We do it not because we get credit or even much thanks. We do it because it’s always been done. We do it for the magic.

I love holiday magic. I always have. Some of my most vivid childhood memories stem from family Christmas traditions. As an adult, I couldn’t wait to start traditions of my own. What I didn’t realize was how much work keeping up those traditions required. I definitely didn’t realize how much effort it takes when you have children of your own, or how much added pressure there is to keep it up.

One of the most fascinating and humbling aspects of parenthood is how much it’s caused me to reconsider my own parents. I see them in a whole new light — entire swaths of my childhood tinged with a different understanding and perspective. I consider how patient they had to be, the various things they had to give up or compromise on, the challenges of parenting that were toughest for them. And I see how much effort it all took, especially during the holidays.

Each December, my brother and I would sing Christmas songs, make Christmas crafts, go to Christmas-themed events, and watch Christmas movies — entertainment our parents had to coordinate and endure. Every Christmas Eve, we’d deliver cookies to my aunt’s next-door neighbor — cookies that my mom had baked and begged us to decorate, then cleaned up after said decorating. On Christmas morning, we’d eat breakfast in either my or my brother’s room (we’d switch who hosted each year) before opening presents — a tradition that required my parents to buy donuts and hound us to clean our rooms ahead of time. And then there were the presents — the buying, the wrapping, the making sure everything was even between siblings. All of it required effort. Until recently, I’d never fully considered how much.

When I was in middle school, my parents somehow maneuvered a basketball hoop onto our driveway on Christmas Eve. I was too old to believe in Santa, but they did it anyway, braving the cold and losing precious sleep to surprise me. Because I was trying to keep up the illusion for my younger brother, the only thanks they got that morning went to Santa.

I think about that moment differently now. I also think I’d throw out my back if I tried to move a basketball hoop in the middle of the night.

Four-year-olds aren’t exactly known for their patience or selflessness, but I have to give my child credit. She was eager to help throughout the decorating process, delighting in every ornament and our growing collection of Christmas books. I wanted to encourage her excitement — she reminds me of what I felt like as a kid at Christmas — but I also wanted her to see how much effort goes into it all. I wanted her to know that the magic wasn’t something to take for granted.

“Whew! This is a lot of work, huh?” I said at various points.

“It sure is!” she replied, grinning as she lunged for another ornament. I’m not sure the message landed, but I’m glad I tried.

The next day, on the way home from Frozen, we passed a copse of trees carefully decked from top to bottom in multicolored lights. It must’ve taken hours to decorate those, I thought.

From the backseat came a squeal of delight. “Santa did that!” she shouted.

I’ll try again next year.

xoxo
KHG