I really love the holiday season. I love everything about it. Ever since my sister and I were little, I remember snow days with hot chocolate, opening a gift on Christmas Eve, the hustle, bustle, and joy of going to Grandmommy’s house, and then traveling to Mooresburg to have Christmas with my grandparents. Those are my memories and I love every one of them.
My kids will remember similar traditions; Christmas Eve dinner with grandparents, aunts and uncles, and then again going to fill the grandparents’ houses with love on Christmas morning. They’ll remember the smell of Nana’s cookies, snuggling up on Gee’s couch, and making gingerbread houses at Mimi and Papaw’s.
Sometimes I wonder: what will they remember about our own holiday traditions?
In years past, selfishly, I wished I could bake the Thanksgiving turkey or host an intimate Christmas with just the four of us. I wonder if every new parent goes through a thought process: “Man, I wish sometimes we could just stay home instead of loading the kids up every holiday.” Getting a handle on parenthood is hard, loading kids in the car while simultaneously making sure you didn’t burn the food is hard, nap schedules are hard, and planning a get-together around everyone’s work schedule is even harder.
But you know what’s even more difficult than that? Realizing you only have a few short years left with those who have loved you the longest and deepest. Our parents shuffled us to see grandparents on the holidays, and I remember nothing but love. I never felt rushed or agitated. I felt pure excitement. I remember opening Nanny’s gift from the buck-or-two store and lots of wrapping paper filling the living room while I spent time with my cousins.
