I love this time of year.
Christmas lights fill the streets and Christmas trees can be seen through windows as we drive through the neighborhood listening to Christmas music. Presents begin to fill the empty space beneath our tree which provides the living room with a cheery glow.
Memories of baking cookies and singing carols around my grandmother’s piano fill my mind as I contemplate activities I can do with my own children. Admittedly, I’m not the best at keeping traditions alive, and usually I sigh in exhaustion at all the extra things my kids want to do.
But still, I love this time of year.
I love gathering around the dinner table and letting the children take turns reading portions of the Christmas story each night. I love watching the kids search for their presents underneath the tree. I love driving around in pajamas looking at Christmas lights. And this year, for the first time, we made gingerbread houses, a fun new tradition. (And I didn’t even freak out when the kitchen was turned upside down in a mess of sticky icing and bits of candy.)
I love this time of year.
But I can remember a few years ago when this time of year was difficult. My youngest two children were still in diapers and I could hardly leave the house alone with them. They were a lot of work, those two.
When Jonah and Vivienne were younger, I had almost no time to myself. I know all you mamas of littles can relate. I would get up extra early, foregoing sleep just so I could have some peace and quiet before the chaos began. I remember one morning in particular. I had gotten up early and was doing my Bible study by the light of my phone at the kitchen table. I was trying to be quiet so as not to wake anyone else in the house.
But then I heard a sweet little voice.
Vivienne.
Singing “Jingle Bells” at the top of her lungs.
At 5:30 a.m.
I was slightly irritated because of the early hour, but as I stopped to listen, I found myself cherishing that innocent voice as she sang her favorite Christmas song.
Apparently I’m not the only one who loves this time of year.
Vivienne still loves Christmas. She loves everything about it. And even though she can be a stinker, she has a heart of gold. This year she made a present for every single person in our family, immediate and extended. Underneath our tree you will find lots of homemade gifts wrapped in all manner of paper. Some of the presents contain popsicle sticks and buttons so the recipient can make their own bookmark. Others contain notes and pencils or a candy cane.
It’s truly a sweet gesture from this little girl who gives us all a run for our money, and I love her big heart. But if I’m being honest, I’m tired of helping her wrap all these weird homemade gifts that family members will inevitable open and discard as soon as she isn’t looking.
It seems like such a waste.
And then I stop myself. Because it isn’t a waste. In her little six-year old mind, she is creating great things and giving away parts of herself to those she loves.
As I sit in my living room and look at our tree, my eyes fill with tears as I find myself wondering when I stopped imagining great things and stopped giving away parts of myself to those I love. As adults, we lose the innocence of childhood, the innocence of Christmas. But I want it back.
This year I want to see Christmas through the eyes of my children.
The wonder of baby Jesus.
The excitement of Santa Claus.
The gratefulness for presents received.
The warmth of family and tradition.
This year I want to experience Christmas.