I can still remember what I consider to be my first “real”
Christmas out on my own.
Our own, I should say. My husband and I had been married
several years at this point, but we always celebrated Christmas with the
families of our childhoods. We would spend Christmas Eve at his parents’ house,
then do the Christmas morning festivities with his parents and brother. Later
in the day, we’d go to my mom’s house for brunch and gift exchanging, and at
some point later in the afternoon we’d return to my husband’s parents’ house
again for dinner.
We used to live only about an hour away from everyone. But
then my husband enlisted in the Navy, and suddenly we were spending Christmas
in Illinois, a long plane ride away from anyone. We had gone on a trip to visit
family earlier in the fall, but decided to stay home—our own home, the one we
were making together—for Christmas.
In some ways, it was a lonely holiday, but we also enjoyed
the freedom of not being bound by anyone else’s schedules. We had a tree—a real
tree, my first live one ever—and we had decorated it with our meager collection
of ornaments. We strung Christmas lights up around our balcony and above our
table. I carefully wrapped a blanket around the tree stand, lacking a proper
tree skirt, but for many weeks we had no presents to pile underneath.
And then we got some presents. My husband’s aunt and uncle
sent us a box with a few goodies for each of us. We placed them ceremoniously
under the tree, a handful of beautifully wrapped gifts and two tiny enveloped
cards.
It was only a few days later that we opened those tiny
cards. We knew this aunt and uncle always send money, you see. I no longer
remember what we spent that money on, but opening it a week or so before
Christmas was, unbeknownst to us at the time, a slippery slope. It wasn’t long
before we opened the wrapped presents. After all, where was the harm in
celebrating early? Why wait? The presents from my in-laws didn’t even all make
it under the tree; some were opened as soon as we received their package, the
rest within days of that. I don’t think we even bothered wrapping the gifts we
got for one another.
Hello, my name is Holly. I’m a Millennial and I suck at
Christmas.
A lot of people have a lot of bad things to say about
Millennials. We’re bleeding heart liberals, snowflakes who can’t handle hearing
or reading anything that might be even the least bit offensive. We need trigger
warnings and safe places. We expect to be rewarded simply for showing up; we
grew up with participation trophies. We need our mommies to do our laundry for
us and to talk to our teachers about our bad grades and to negotiate job
contracts.
Most of that is nonsense, of course. We Millennials are hardworking
and honest, for the most part. We’re smart; many of us have one or more college
degrees. We’re persistent and determined. We’re goal-driven and
action-oriented. We believe in freedom and equality.
I grew up in an era of what some would scathingly call “political
correctness.” Thus, I have no problem referring to December as the “holiday
season;” I’m not offended by Starbucks’ annual red winter cups; I default to
saying “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.” I recognize that
Christmas isn’t the only holiday celebrated in December, and I value being
inclusive of others. I recognize that others might label me a snowflake for
that (how seasonally appropriate!), but I don’t care. Christmas isn’t a
religious holiday for me anyway. It’s not about an imaginary war on Christmas
in particular; I just have no attachment to the word specifically.
As a person, I feel like I’ve accomplished a lot. I’ve been
married for nearly a decade. I’ve given birth to two healthy children. I’ve
owned a house. I’ve lived in several states and moved more times than I care to
think about. But there are definitely some places where I feel like I’m failing
as an adult. I’m terrible at housework. It often takes me days to fold laundry.
Both my husband and I avoid taking out the trash until it’s no longer
ignorable. Despite my best intentions, we usually don’t even eat meals at the
table together on a regular basis. And I’m pretty bad at creating holiday magic
for my kids.
For my older son’s first Christmas, it was just the two of
us (Daddy was deployed). I didn’t even put up a Christmas tree. In the years
since, we do Christmas… a little bit. There’s a tree, but rarely any other
decorations. There’s a fancy meal, which we usually eat in our pajamas. There
are stocking stuffers, but often we don’t actually put them in the stockings.
Our son usually has a pretty good idea ahead of time of what presents we’re
getting him: homemade pajama pants (he helps me pick out the fabric), a book, a
toy or two.
This year, the “big” family present was a new gaming
console. We bought it online over Black Friday weekend, and we opened it as
soon as it arrived. My husband opened his big present as soon as it arrived,
too. In November. We’re getting me a new phone, and I highly doubt that it’ll
get wrapped and put under the tree, either. See what I mean? No surprises, and
we can’t even be bothered to wait until Christmas to receive our presents.
It’s like we use Christmas as an excuse to buy a few shiny
new things, but we care less about the actual day than we do about just getting
and enjoying the gift.
It’s not that I don’t want Christmas to be magical. Growing
up, my own mother decorated extensively for Christmas every year. I’d love to
do the same: tinsel lining the bannisters, wreaths on the doors, dish towels
with poinsettias, maybe even a special set of holiday china. My mom threw a
giant holiday party every year, inviting neighbors and friends from school, her
and my dad’s jobs, Girl Scouts, karate. I’d love to do the same once we have a
house of our own, assuming I can get past my introvert tendencies. I’d love to
go ice skating and offer my kids the opportunity to take pictures with some guy
dressed up as Santa.
But somehow, we seem to struggle with overcoming our baser
(lazier?) tendencies. It’s just too much
work. It requires too much forethought.
And I don’t know what the solution is, aside from pulling myself
up by my bootstraps one of these years, developing some willpower, and just
doing it. Keeping those holiday presents a secret. Finding time to go shopping
for stocking stuffers alone (or opening the Amazon boxes at night, after the
kids are in bed). Maybe my husband and I can actually shop for presents for one
another, rather than just picking out a nice gift for ourselves. Maybe I’ll
actually buy some tinsel and some proper stocking hangers. Maybe I’ll host that
holiday cookie swap like I’ve always wanted to.
This year, however, I’ve got the excuse of a new baby. I don’t
have time to decorate. I don’t have time for surprises and magic. Call it an
excuse, but the magic just isn’t going to happen this year. Maybe next year we’ll
manage to do Christmas “right.”
