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There are some Christmases you don’t have to look back on to know they’ll stay with you. It’s the strangest thing—you can actaully feel it while you’re still in it. …Before the wrapping paper is torn, before the leftovers are stacked in mismatched containers in the fridge, before the multicolored lights come down off the house and January starts nudging its way in.
This is one of those years.
We decided to do a big, old-fashioned family Christmas this year. The kind that isn’t particularly efficient or quiet or polished. The kind where everyone shows up and stays (some overnight—yay!). There’s more food than the table can reasonably hold and the conversations overlap until no one remembers who was telling what story in the first place.
For the longest time, I thought the Christmases I’d remember most would be the prettiest ones. The ones that looked curated and intentional. The ones where the house felt magazine-ready, and everything matched, and nothing spilled (haha). But somewhere along the way, all that just stopped feeling like Christmas.
But this year…it doesn’t feel staged at all. It feels full.
The kitchen is busy in that familiar, slightly chaotic way. Someone is always opening the fridge. There’s a pot on the stove that doesn’t really need to be stirred, but it gets stirred anyway. Cookies appear and disappear without much tracking. Things are happening at the same time, and no one’s fully in charge of any of it—which, as it turns out, is exactly the point.
The things I already know I’ll remember aren’t the details I could post or photograph. I’ll remember the noise. The way the house sounds when it’s being used—when it’s full to the brim with my people. I’ll remember the feeling of knowing everyone’s here, under this one roof, even if they’re not all in the same room at the same time. I’ll remember moments that felt ordinary while they were happening—and important the second they passed. That lingering look at the tree each evening, hearing my grand babies in the next room, watching Hannah play Tetris with the food storage containers in the fridge again.
There’s something different about Christmas in this season of life. You stop trying to prove you’re doing it “right.” You care less (or not at all) about how it comes across and more about how it lands. You let traditions bend a little (or a lot). You let the timeline loosen. You stop worrying and trying to fix things that aren’t actually broken (except for those crooked ornaments and wonky c7 lights, haha—those must still be adjusted).
I never expected this year to feel so… settled. Not perfect. Not even really organized (we didn’t get our matching jammies until two days ago, which is unbelievable for me). Just right for where we are right now.
Christmas is almost here, and somehow it already feels like it’s slipping away. This is the part I always struggle with—the moment when the planning is done and the buildup runs out. The presents are wrapped. The lists are checked off. All that’s left is the part you can’t organize or control—the togetherness, the mess, the laughter, and the moments you don’t even realize you’re keeping until they’re already memories.
And maybe that’s why I already know I’ll remember this one…
Because it isn’t about what we did. It’s about how it felt to be right here, in this house, with these people, at this exact point in time. And that’s the kind of Christmas that stays with you long after the lights and ornaments are packed away.
Kristine, your thoughts this Christmas sound so familiar to me. It’s when you have children and grandchildren and you start focusing on them. I think it is about our growing and letting go of some things. I know you will have much joy this Christmas.