Merry Christmas Eve

This is my favorite Christmas ornament.

When my grandmother bought it sometime in the 50s, it was probably in a package with a dozen identical hand-painted glass balls, sold for sixty-five cents or whatever devastatingly innocent price people paid back then for a whole damn box of beauty. But now it’s the only surviving ornament from my grandmother’s tree, so it’s extra special to us. We clear a prime spot for it on the tree every year—I’m always the one to take it out of the box, because if it ever breaks, I want only myself to blame.

It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m looking at it right now. Which is unusual.

My parents are coming to our house tomorrow. It’s the first Christmas my husband, daughter, and I will spend at home and not on the road paying visits to family. I remember how different that felt as a kid—that first year we didn’t bundle ourselves in the car on Christmas morning for a three-hour drive to New Jersey, the first year I opened my stocking trinkets by our own tree instead of in the car. My mom was right there to pick up where her mom left off. She started traditions, baked eight kinds of cookies, decked the halls with so much Christmas cheer that if you walked into our house wearing red and green, it would take a Where’s Waldo champion to find you.

Next to her Christmas, mine feels. . .different. Really different. There are lame little bows on our porch posts instead of swags of thick garland and shimmering lights. There are no electric candles in our windows because I’d never remember to turn them on. The word “butt” was bandied around liberally as we speed-wrapped Christmas gifts, and the six-year-old and I spent a fair amount of time debating whether or not to leave Santa a beer. I haven’t had time to bake a single cookie.

Also: We’re not at midnight Mass right now. There’s no nativity set under our tree with the figures nestled in a real wooden stable (along with a stowaway Smurf or a plastic T. rex).

Before tonight, I spent a lot of time cataloging the differences between my parents’ Christmas and ours, stressing out about what they’ll think when they show up tomorrow and what topics might come up when we talk about the meaning of Christmas. But you know what? Tonight our family of three watched A Christmas Carol together on the couch, and we made a mini-movie of Ro whipping up a salami sandwich for Santa, and we spun around for a half-hour to “rough Christmas songs” until we fell down laughing. And now I’m sitting here in the treelight (which should pretty much be our default lighting all year), and I’m thinking how cool it is—and how right it is—that we get to decide what kind of Christmas people we want to be. So far, doing it our way feels just right.

My favorite ornament has hung on three trees: my Gram’s, my mom’s, and mine. The trees are different. The food and decorations and belief systems are different. But there’s continuity, too. Three sets of hands hanging the same ornament. Three moms worrying and hoping, doing their best to teach their daughters how to live in this world and not be a jerk.

My mom will be here in twelve hours. Maybe it’ll be a little weird, but I know she’ll be okay with our imperfect little Christmas, because despite our differences, she likes who I am.

And maybe later we can make some cookies together.

Because I kinda like who she is, too.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS to everyone! Thank you so much for reading the blog this year. I hope you have a happy, safe, and relaxing holiday with family and friends. I can’t wait to share a new book with you in March!