When we were kids, Christmas was different. Butterflies built in our tummies as we counted the weeks…days…hours until Santa came. We’d stay glued to the television set, tracking Santa as he made his way around the globe…waiting in anticipation when he crossed the continents and states…running to bed when he was a state away. Sleep could barely contain us as we tried desperately to listen for the jingling of sleigh bells and the thud of a man sliding down the chimney. We’d stay locked in our rooms…fighting temptation to sneak a peek at the tree and the pile of presents that multiplied over night…until the appointed hour mom and dad assigned us as “safe” to wake them up. Wrapping paper and bows would fly like missiles as we tore under the camouflage to unveil everything on our Santa list.
Now, as an adult, I cling to those memories, trying to invoke a similar feeling…but it eludes me. I was able to resucitate it and nourished it while my son was young…but at almost 17, the thrill is dissipating. With more expensive tastes and needs, the pile under the tree lessens…the rush to open the gifts decreases…and the traditions barely linger.
I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle…but I refuse to give up. My family needs to put life back into itself…stat…before we fall completely apart.