I remember being a little girl and jumping out of bed to head downstairs to see first-hand the magic that Santa had brought.
Well actually, I didn’t really jump out of bed as I was terrified of the bearded, big guy in Red, but I would call out to my brother to see if he could go down and check, making sure that Santa had for sure come and gone.
Once I got the “all clear”, it was sheets off and a quick sprint downstairs.
This was all before the sun had come up.
The house was in darkness, aside from our glowing Christmas tree, and the milk and cookies we had left had always been eaten and sipped. Little crumbs would be left on the plate and we were certain that Santa had enjoyed our baking.
One year Santa even left his bells on our chair. We picked them up in shock, solidifying our belief that Santa was for sure real and we were lucky enough to have something that belonged to him to prove it to our friends.
Our gifts would sit un-wrapped under the Christmas tree and it was always something that made us squeal and happy dance.
It was something sacred that we had put on our list and we never thought would come true…until that magical morning when our wishes were granted.
One magical Christmas for me was 1983, the year of the Cabbage Patch doll mayhem. I so badly wanted that plastic headed, soft bodied doll with wool hair and a signature on her bum-bum, that I wrote five letters to Santa that year and told every mall Santa that would listen about my wish.
Little did I know at the time the absolute chaos and mayhem that this wish was causing my parents as these dolls couldn’t be found anywhere and yet to keep the magic of Santa alive, they knew they had to deliver.
Years later I learned that my parents received a call on Christmas Eve day from a store called ‘Consumers Distributing’ that a shipment had just arrived and to make their way down.
For weeks they had been panicked knowing that this doll was all I wanted and my Dad even got into a mob at a local department store where people were fighting in the aisles trying to grab the last boxes.
It was chaos and for a long month my parents figured they were going to have to come clean and tell me that Santa wouldn’t be able to deliver that wish this year… but then like a Christmas miracle that call came and my wish was granted.
Her name was Donna. She had yellow wool hair, blues eyes, a pink and white striped shirt and jean overalls. Holding her under the glowing Christmas tree made every one of my dreams come true and I still get giddy thinking of that moment. I still have Donna, the name that came with her on her adoption certificate, and my two young girls have even had turns loving her.
As I held her tightly that day, I am sure my parents were hi- fiving and shedding a tear behind me, for their efforts had kept the magic of Christmas alive, and yet I was too young to understand any of this.
I asked. Santa granted. Done.
But as a parent now, holy crap is this whole holiday magic such a big thing to live up to.
Our kids have so much that they don’t really get excited about anything.
They receive so much and get so many things all year that there is no longer that magic of that one special gift.
We did hit that magical sweet spot a couple times with our daughters when they asked for an Elsa dress, a glowing unicorn that moved and the horse from the Rapunzel movie; those were three Christmases I will never forget.
They were filled with awe and wonder.
It wasn’t so much about the gifts they received but it was about the magic that they created.
The belief. The sheer joy and excitement.
As parents, we had delivered and felt elated by their reactions.
But I feel that as parents now we want so bad to keep that magic alive that we force it and overdo it.
It’s become so much, that I even find it hard to keep up the charade.
Like this darn little Elf.
You know the one. They arrive on December first and every day they move around and do crazy things, keeping an eye on our children and reporting back to the big guy to make sure they stay on the nice list so they can receive a gift.
It’s magic with a twist.
I didn’t really want the elf, but everyone else on the playground had one and I felt that I was letting my daughter down by not giving in.
So we did and I regret it.
Now don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy it. Coming up with crazy antics for the elf to get into, watching my children leap out of bed for a whole month to go and find her and quietly whispering their secrets to her. It does create some Christmas hype.
But hot damn, it’s like playing a game of keep-up with each set of parents trying to outdo the other.
If your elf just moves shelf to shelf, like it was originally meant to do, then you are not doing enough.
It needs outfits and pets and shenanigans. It’s also the cause of more holiday stress as you leap out of bed at 1am remembering that you didn’t move the dumb thing.
As a child, Christmas for me was easy. All I had to do was believe in Santa and the North Pole and reindeer pulling his sleigh, dropping off presents on Christmas Eve. It was a far-fetched story, but we all believed the same thing so it seemed more possible.
But now everyone does it different.
Some kids get one gift from Santa. Some get five and some even get a real pony.
Some have elves that change outfits and leave gifts every day and some have none.
Some get to meet Santa and have virtual calls from him and others don’t.
But somewhere in all of these ‘extras’ our kids got wiser and belief time got shorter.
We overdid it all.
In trying to provide more magic, we actually took some of it away.
I know that at the end of the day we are ‘lying’ to our kids and the truth will one day be revealed, but that window of magic gets shorter and shorter because once they ‘know the truth’, they can never unknow it.
That innocence of childhood is short lived.
This year I bought those plastic pants that make your Elf stand up, thinking it was cute and different and yet my daughter, who is on the verge of disbelief, cried because she’d seen the pants in a store and questioned if it was me who bought them and moved the elf.
Darn pants. I kicked things up a notch to make the ‘magic’ more fun, but the truth is that the magic is found in simplicity.
It also didn’t help that one of her friends brought her elf to a birthday party because she had written a letter to Santa asking for a “touching Elf” and Santa wrote back granting the request.
There’s that one parent wanting to give their child ‘more’ not realizing the ramifications that one simple gesture was putting on the rest of us, crushing the magic that we were trying to create and keep alive.
Sometimes I feel guilty knowing that I am creating all of this Christmas magic that will one day be revealed as lies, but then I stop myself for it isn’t all lies… the magic of Christmas is a feeling.
It’s tradition.
It’s one day a year that we all feel giddy and happy and hopeful.
It’s the spirit of Christmas and the joy of giving that make us all feel warm and fuzzy.
It’s one day to believe in something bigger than us.
One day to live in a world of make-believe and wonder and let the stresses and the weight of the world dissolve.
Sure, it’s made up, but I still love watching a good Christmas movie, driving around to see the lights, signing carols and gathering with friends and family.
It is magical and not because of the elves and falsehoods we are creating but rather by the traditions we carry forth.
The belief in something and someone much bigger than all of us. The real meaning of Christmas.
So simple is best.
Memories will last a lifetime and our ‘lies’ will become traditions our children carry forth.
Find joy in the little things and let our little ones believe in magic for as long as they can.
For sometimes we all have to believe in something we can’t see, or feel or touch.
It’s called faith and faith brings hope.
Christmas is a feeling, an escape we all deserve.
Hold onto it, we’ve got this!
@half_full_most_days