Mary Christmas

Traditions are a funny thing.

We take them for granted as if it has always been the way.

But one year, we didn’t celebrate Christmas on December 25, and the next year, we did.

One year, we didn’t search for eggs on Easter, and the next year, someone got a really weird idea that we’ve all collectively decided is fine.

We don’t know what makes some things become traditions. They just seem to stick.

So every year we get excited to pull out the decorations, and Grandma’s cookie recipe, and attempt to make a roast beef because it’s just what you do.

And while we try to desperately hold on to the little things that make us feel like nothing is changing, we ourselves change.

In fact, the very definition of the word “Christmas” changes dramatically as you age.

When you’re two, Christmas means Santa and visits from family.

When you’re four, it means presents.

When you’re eight it means very specific presents.

When you’re 14 it means family holiday party obligations and getting dressed up for some ungodly reason to go to some stupid thing you hate so you can stand in the corner and text your friends about how lame it is.

When you’re 20 it means coming home from college to see your family and getting generic gift cards to buy groceries and a little pocket money from mom and dad.

When you’re 25 it means bringing your partner home for the first time to meet the family.

When you’re 30 it means baby’s first Christmas.

And when they’re two, Christmas means Santa and visits from family.

One of the beautiful parts of memory is how faulty it is.

Amid an endless stream of footage, we only have glimpses.

Like flipping through channels before Netlifx or the TV guide.

We forget most of the junk.

And only really hold on to the highs (and sometimes lows).

So when we look back at our own Christmas as a kid, we remember that it was fun and warm and happy.

And we try to give that to our own kids in some small way.

But we’ve moved.

And mom and dad sold the house.

So we grab the few things we have left, and begin to paint a blurry picture of our own happy Christmas.

We put on Charlie Brown.

And grab Grandma’s cookie recipe.

And google “what kind of meat is roast beef”.

And nestle for a moment into the quiet comfort of nostalgia.

be good

z