happy holy daze

Christmas spirit had taken a nearly twenty year lull, maybe more.  A child of divorce, there were three Christmas's a year:  Eve at my Gramma Bruggners, morning at moms, afternoon at dads.  The presents were awesome, but I do vaguely remember being around ten years old and groaning Christmas night somewhere, at somebody's house, "Another one?"  Somehow the holiday got less exciting in adolescence, getting that coveted walkman and hiding in a corner with cassette tapes.  I think I was about 22 when I came home one year from some western state that my dad and stepmother had separated.  She and my brothers were living in a rental near my Gramma Doe's house.  My father was in a rental someplace else.  I think it was the 23rd when I came home, and I was given a choice: "Well, you can spend Christmas eve with your dad and his friends, or with you sister, her family and your mom, or your stepmother, brothers and Gramma Doe."  I decided to go solo instead, and went to the beach and cried.

The years after that were characterized by flying home from Oregon or Colorado or wherever I was living at the time, my dad picking me up at the airport and taking me out for sushi.  I bounced around from family home to family home, eventually settling on a routine that would last over the next ten years.  It was always nice to be home and see everyone, but it was also always so hectic.  The eve and morning, with my stepmother and brothers, the late morning with my sister's family and mom, the afternoon with my dad and Gramma Doe.  I'd fly home with a bulging suitcase with new hats and sweaters from my three Christmas's.  It was exhausting, and continued like this for years.

Skip ahead another ten seasons or so with boyfriend turned fiance turned husband.  Good stuff.  Always warm and lovely to decorate the tree, fun to give gifts to my stepdaughter and hang out with her before she did the split day and left for her moms, and then quiet with my husband, Annie and Zuki.   In the afternoons we'd play with a new gadget or take a walk.  One year we took the dog to run at a local state park.  When we got there we'd discovered someone had shoveled off a rink on the pond.  We raced home and got our skates, went back and spent the afternoon on the ice, Annie running and sliding between us.  Best. Christmas. Afternoon.

And now, here we are, the third Christmas with our child, the first that she is cognizant of what Christmas might mean, the thrill of the tree, the awareness of all the presents underneath.  This is the first year I've put Christmas music on my ipod, created playlists and intentionally listen to Johnny Mathis, Elvis, Ella Fitzgerald, etc.  My nearly 14 year old stepdaughter came in the other day in the midst of my baking and singing Winter Wonderland and said "Auuugggh... I HATE Christmas music!!!" And I laughed in recognition.  Cassidy in the meantime walks in circles singing, "Frosty the the snowman.  Jolly Happy Soul.  HEY!  Frosty the snowman.  Jolly Happy Soul.  HEY!"  When the music is playing and Ella's Frosty is on, she bellows,"Again! Again! Again!"

The Christmas spirit has been creeping up to me the past few years, and now I think I've got it.  I actually don't think it's ever been this good.