I’m a Millennial and I Suck at Holiday Magic

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.”