Holiday Reflections
That time of year is here again, the holly, jolly hustle and bustle. The holiday soirées, the pressure cooker of gift giving and merry making. Don’t get me wrong, I actually do believe it’s the most wonderful time of the year, but it’s also exhausting. I’m told there’s a whole lot of magic to experience, especially because I’m raising young children, and I hope it’s true. Nothing seems more magical than sleep these days.
One of my fondest memories of Christmas morning as a child was the crazy scavenger hunt my mom would dream up for my younger brother and me after all of the presents under the tree were unwrapped.
A typical Christmas morning would begin with Scott and I arising before the sun and racing to open our stockings. I would tip toe down the hall into his room in my plaid flannel PJs, poking him, “Are you awake? Come on, we can open our stockings now.” We were allowed to open those gifts before our parents awakened. And although the small surprises were usually mundane and always practical…a new Colgate toothbrush, cherry ChapStick, a pack of bubble gum…there was something so rewarding about getting to rip open those packages before mom got her cup of coffee or dad used the bathroom or grandma inserted her dentures. I would neatly stack my pile of goodies on a designated section of the loveseat, and sometimes Scott and I would engage in sibling trades. I’d ask for his pack of grape Hubba Bubba and would end up stuck with cinnamon Close-Up red gel, the worst toothpaste ever.
As the morning rolled on, we’d progress through opening the red and green department store boxes filled with the obligatory new clothes, maybe a cable knit sweater or Tommy Hilfiger belt, a past-season and likely irregular pair of jeans mom found on the “final clearance” rack and a new bottle of the happy floral Jessica McClintock eau de toilette spray. “Can we pause and eat some breakfast?” my mom would interrupt. We’d reluctantly gather around the kitchen table for scrambled eggs and Entenmann’s danish. Cheese was always my favorite flavor, but my dad, the king of sweets in our home, most likely purchased raspberry, maybe even two if they were on sale that week. And boy did Dad love to play tricks on Grandma when it came to her food, sometimes hiding her plate under the table if she had to get up to replace her tea bag, leaving her totally bewildered about her misplaced danish, voices elevated to compensate for her hearing loss. It’s a good thing she was always such a good sport and played along with all of us.
After what felt like an eternity, it would finally be time for the search for the usually oversized Santa gift. “OK, mom, we are ready for our clues,” my brother would announce. One by one, we’d take turns opening individual envelopes with Seuss-like rhymes leading us to obscure locations in the house to search for another envelope with mom’s whimsical handwriting, up and down the stairs, into the frigid garage, behind the Wedgwood or Pendelfin rabbits in the china cabinet, laughter mounting, anticipation soaring.
One of my least favorite finds was a large mirror with a gilded, braided frame featuring a watercolor of geese coasting over a pond in some New England town. “Surely this gift was intended for someone else,” I silently remarked. I forced a smile (and discreetly searched for another clue envelope), wishing this was just a decoy for a much more desired and age-appropriate gift.
And yet, that mirror remains in my garage, bubble wrapped and tucked away in a cardboard box. I never can bring myself to include it on my periodic runs to Goodwill. It reminds me of family traditions, of Christmases past, of some of the best moments we shared as a family when I was a girl and we still lived and laughed together. Holiday magic I suppose.
