A huge difference between being a child and being an adult lies in the 55 days between Halloween and Christmas.
When I was much younger, November and December felt frozen. So very many days passed between watching It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown and A Charlie Brown Christmas.
There was ample time to peruse — and memorize — every single page of the toy sections of the Sears and J.C. Penney catalogs.
I’d stare at calendars, wishing for days to move faster, anxious for Thanksgiving to hurry up so we could all feast and play card games and watch the annual slideshow at Gramma’s house.
By nightfall, after we’d snacked on turkey sandwiches and slivers of leftover pie, it was acceptable to openly discuss Christmas plans. Decorations. Meals. Wish lists.
Still, time would crawl by this point, each day agonizingly longer than the day before, until finally it was Christmas Eve Eve. That’s when the magic would happen.
Hot cocoa. Nonstop television. Festive snacks. Maybe a gift to open early. Family and friends gathering.
At last, Christmas morning arrived, and we’d unpack stockings and unwrap gifts. We’d play new games, read new books, lounge about in new pajamas.
It was the fastest, most glorious day of the year.
And now? Once you’re in charge of making the magic happen, there simply aren’t enough hours available.
Before we’ve greeted the first trick-or-treaters, my mind starts to create lists:
- Gifts already purchased
- Places I might have hidden gifts already purchased
- Gifts yet to purchase
- Nonprofits to help
- Possible days for decorating the house
- Families to add to our Christmas card list
- Events already on the calendar
- Days on the calendar not yet claimed
- People I want to visit with
- Recipes I want to try
- Traditions we absolutely must continue
- Traditions I can ask Katie to pick up
- Traditions I might let slide
The lists don’t steal the joy of the season. In fact, lists make people like me happy. Completing a list is like, well, like Christmas morning.
It just all tumbles by so quickly.
It's part of the tragedy of adulthood. We want to freeze — or at least slow down — time with our babies who are no longer babies. We want to savor moments because we know they're fleeting. We want to spend our time wisely because we know we don't get it back.
Yet we’ve placed on ourselves the burden of creating magic for children who want the opposite. They want time to move faster. They don’t yet fully understand the value of reveling in the right now. They don’t consider time a nonrenewable resource.
Every year I make new promises to myself — and try to keep them in the following years. I no longer worry about fancy ribbon for packages. I no longer stress if the Christmas dishes stay boxed away. I no longer obsessively try to “even up” gifts for my children. (I’m certain they don’t count packages or add up prices in their heads.)
This year’s promises: We will drink cocoa whenever we feel like it. We won’t feel guilty about turning down an invitation or two. We’ll watch A Charlie Brown Christmas together, even if there’s homework that night.
We can’t control time, but a great gift of adulthood is learning that we can take care to spend it well.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment