When my children were little, Christmas was always a big deal…a grand event. The first big event was, of course, decorating the tree. I used to sit in the middle of the living room floor, carefully unwrap each ornament, and place them in eager little hands to be hung on the tree. When the last ornament found its place, the kids and I would stand back in the dark with only the Christmas tree lights illuminating the room and admire our handiwork. After an hour or so, when they had lost interest in the tree, I would rearrange the ornaments so they were spread evenly over the tree instead of all being clustered at a child’s eye level. They never noticed I had ‘improved’ their handiwork.
As Christmas drew nearer, I became guardian of the tree and of the presents starting to accumulate at its base. The little hands that previously had so carefully hung the ornaments turned bold in their quest to examine the wrapped presents. Presents that were carefully placed around the tree in an aesthetically pleasant arrangement became jumbled as my children would examine, shake, poke and prod each wrapped item in an effort to guess what was hidden inside. Some taunting was involved as well if, for example, one child had four presents under the tree and the other child had only three at that time. I became a broken record as I was constantly shouting “Stay away from the tree!”, and “Stop shaking the presents!”
Christmas Eve delivered peak excitement for the kids and exhaustion for me. By that point, all the presents from me were under the tree, and it was fairly easy getting the kids to go to bed as they knew Santa wouldn’t come until they were asleep. After teeth were brushed and each child was tucked in for the night, I would pour a glass of wine and sit in silence for a bit until I was sure they were both asleep. Then, the presents from Santa would be added to the pile under the tree, and stockings were filled. Usually by the time I had completed my tasks and finished my glass of wine it was well after midnight, and I would drag myself off to bed, satisfied that I had taken care of each little detail in preparation for Christmas morning.
Around 4:00 A.M. I would feel a little hand shake my shoulder. Next I heard the hushed whisper, “Mom…I think Santa’s been here.”
“How do you know?” I whispered back.
“Because the stockings are full,” she replied.
I would convince her to crawl into bed with me, hoping she’d fall back asleep for a couple of hours. She would lie with me, on her back, and I could tell even in the dark that her eyes were open and she was patiently waiting until I told her its time to get up. An hour or so later, her sister would find her way into my bedroom as well and at that point I knew there was no possibility of more sleep for me. One final stretch and I would crawl out of bed, put on my robe, and follow them both downstairs.
Once downstairs, I could convince them to wait to open presents until I made coffee. They satisfied themselves by dumping the contents of their stockings onto the floor and carefully examine each item. I would half-heartedly yell at them to wait until after breakfast before they started eating their Christmas chocolates.
Coffee brewed and poured, I would join them in the living room, and the real fun began. I would sit on the couch sipping my coffee, watching the scene unfold before me. Two pajama-clad little girls politely distributing presents to each other, politely acknowledging with a nod an unwrapped present being shown (look what I got!), only to then be thrust aside to conquer the next item. Sounds of paper tearing intermingled with shouts of delight, until finally, there were no more presents to open.
And I, still sitting with my coffee, would survey the damage. Shreds of paper everywhere, abandoned ribbons, packaging remnants and candy wrappers all over the floor; a mess to be cleaned up. Operating on automatic pilot out of sheer exhaustion, I would force myself up off the couch, put my coffee cup on the kitchen counter, retrieve a trash bag and start picking up shredded wrapping paper.
The rest of the day would be filled with cooking, cleaning, playing with the kids, and of course, breaking up the occasional fight (“she won’t give me my toy back”, or “she ate a piece of my candy”). I remember during one especially rambunctious Christmas locking myself in the bathroom, smoking a cigarette out of the open window just to get ten minutes of peace. By the end of the day, my nerves were shot and I was looking forward to putting the kids to bed so I could have a few hours of silence. Peace and quiet were luxuries I didn’t get very often.
Now, fast forward ten years. My oldest daughter is a mother of two beautiful little boys, and my youngest daughter is a college sophomore, which in turn makes me an empty-nester. This relatively new status of mine is not bad or good, it just is. It’s different. But what I notice the most is that my house is too quiet, too peaceful, and too clean. I miss the chaos. I miss the sound of laughter and packages being torn into on Christmas mornings. I miss the mess, and the arguing over candy. I miss my little girls crawling in bed with me at 4:00 A.M. letting me know that Santa has been at our house.
If you are fortunate enough to have children still at home, please believe me when I tell you that silence at times is overrated. Cherish the chaos. Listen to every sound. Enjoy the laughter. Really soak it all in and love every minute of it. And above all else, build memories.
Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas full of love and laughter.
Bold Soul Life 