Dododreams

I Corinthians 13:11 — When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became an adult, I put away childish things.

When I was a kid, Christmas was without a doubt the most exciting time of the year. Days off from school, skating and tobogganing down at the park, the huge stack of presents under the tree, everything was so fun! Odd memories arise, like having to go down the basement, eyes closed, so Mom could make me try on some clothing she was sewing. Visiting Ben Franklin to shop for my sisters, though oddly enough I can’t recall what the heck I ever bought for them. Even sitting at the kitchen table wrapping those darned homemade caramels in waxed paper was not bad, because I knew that if I played my cards right I could snag some cookies and sugar-coated apple candies after and go hide under the old couch in the living room to gobble them down. The whole holiday season kicked off with the family dinner in November for me, Dad, Gram and John; then swept through another family meal at Thanksgiving and on to Christmas, shared with Uncle Bill’s family.

I’m not sure what changed because over the past years I have developed such ennui about the whole thing. I suppose part of it is having to be the The Adult, for years and years being in charge of buying gifts and travel arrangements to the in-laws and my parents’ house. Even before I had children Christmas seemed to turn into a series of chores to get through rather than something to look forward to. Without getting all maudlin and “oh poor me” about it, I think the decisive point was the first year I saw none of my family at all — Christmas became very lonely for me that year. That year Mom and Dad were out in Seattle with the rest of the girls and I was enduring a long weekend at the ex’s parent’s house of traditions that were odd to me, being ignored, and sugar-coated hostility. That was stressful, right before we got married and feeling so not very welcome in my future family group. Heh, as I recall I spent quite a bit of those days down at the barn with the orange cat, who was a very pleasant fellow and a nice companion to talk to and pet. Perhaps that was the beginnings of my current affinity towards those of the feline persuasion which in retrospect puts that weekend in a much more rewarding light. Punkie was a wonderfully special cat and could climb up and down ladders to boot, a strange and remarkable skill.

Leaving those happy thoughts of the barn cat behind and back to the present, what I need to do now is to turn my head around about this whole Christmas thing and quietly rediscover the wonder in it all. The good stuff is:

Upstairs is a closet full of bags and parcels to wrap and send, one of my favourite things ever to do. I imagine the recipients finding delight in these gifts and that is a sustaining and rewarding thought.

Down the basement is the tall narrow Christmas tree, all boxed up. Assembling that has turned into a project for me and C the past couple of years, a new tradition which the two of us have built and hopefully which he will remember with fondness as an adult.

Decorating the tree is also a happy thing, me pulling ornament after ornament out of their bins and doling then out to the children. We four talk about where they came from, and they ooo and ahhh to see their very own “Baby’s First Christmas” decorations as well as those from subsequent years. Buying each a new ornament every year has also turned into a tradition, so that when we break up as a family living together they will be able to carry part of their childhood with them into their separate futures.

This year we are also planning some holiday baking, an occurrence that never happened last year since we had just moved and everything was still very disordered. Each child has his or her favourite type of cookie to create, and C in particular has become very interested in cooking. It pleases me to think that this year he and I will together make a couple of the recipes handed down from my grandmother, and that I will write them in his personal cookbook so he can have them for always.

Finally, since our holiday celebration will be delayed until New Year’s weekend this year, we four will then make the journey to Dad’s house where those traditions will be reinforced. Spending the time together is what’s important, not the number of the day on which it happens.

It’s a happy thing, a comforting thing to think this through a little, to recognize that there are high points to the upcoming holiday season, that it really isn’t something to be merely endured. They aren’t as exhilarating now as when I was five or eight or twelve, but still provide a strong sense of continuity and make me realize that the contentment of giving others a happy holiday season is really the joy in it all for me.