By the time I erect a small fake Christmas tree in the corner of my living room, decorate it and place presents by its plastic trunk, it is almost time to take it down again. So goes the speed with which the holiday season passes. From parties to shopping, from traveling to baking, December sure hustles.
And that’s a shame, really. It’s just one more example of how what should be the most cherished of holidays can really only be enjoyed through the eyes of our children –or, in my case, my nephews, two boys who still consider December the longest of months.
It used to be that way for me. Every day, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, felt like a week. I would peer over the railing as my parents arrived home from shopping and would guess by the shapes of the bags they carried what was hidden inside. My mother always seemed to enjoy the way in which it tortured me, while my father just looked tired after following her around for several hours at the mall and agreeing with every purchase she made.
There were years when I would break down from anticipation, weighing in my adolescent mind whether hunting for unwrapped presents under my parents’ bed was somehow sacrilegious – a curse that would prevent me from receiving anything I really wanted. Some kids are weird, and I was one of them.
Presents that were wrapped before I could find them (the vast majority) just added to the holiday stress – the first time most children experience such a feeling. I would survey the number of presents under the tree and tally how many were addressed to me compared to my siblings. Like your kids, I would shake and study them when no one was looking. Sometimes, I would simply lie next to them and pray that God would speed up time to relieve the agony.
What’s ironic is that while I can remember how theatrical I acted as Christmas drew closer, I barely remember one gift I opened as a child. In my family, as in many of yours, the season fell on hard times and good ones. We always celebrated, and I always received presents, but I forgot what years Dad was between jobs or when we simply just didn’t have a lot of money.
I can’t tell you when I received less than the previous holiday, but I do remember that feeling of euphoria when the day finally arrived. I would stare at the clock during Christmas service wondering when the pastor (who, at the time, was my father) would stop reciting bible verses and sing the closing carol and dismiss the congregation and allow his and every other child in the sanctuary to go home and open presents.
It wasn’t greed. Children aren’t greedy; they just become engulfed with anticipation more than their parents do, and perhaps appreciate the season more because of it. And each year, when I park my car in front of my parents’ house, and I see those nephews’ two noses pressed against the window watching me carry their presents to the door, I’m reminded of when I was just like them. And I miss that manic kid.
Those boys may not receive as much this Christmas as they did last year. After all, we’re in hard times. But I doubt they’ll remember that, and maybe, for just a few days, we shouldn’t either.