A while ago, probably around fifth grade, I was at my grandma’s house for Christmas Eve. I am always comfortable at her house since I lived there for a year when I was younger and always found myself there for a night away from home. I had cried the way there and was crying upstairs in what I called my bedroom. I sat there with the blankets as a wall around me, trying to keep reality out and my youth in. Even as a fifth grader, I could feel the sensation of growing up and hated it. At the time, I felt that the Christmas season had passed through like a train, not stopping to recognize the people fascinated by it.
Maybe it was dramatic of me to be so worked up, and it truly was all made up in my imagination. The time length was the same as always, and we had done all of our normal traditions, but it felt different that year. Since then, every Christmas or Eve, I find tears streaming down my face since the season wasn’t nearly long enough.
Last year was quite possibly the worst. It was an amazing year: we went to Nashville for Thanksgiving, Disney the first week of December, and did all of our normal traditions. The main problem came the week before when my divorced grandparents found themselves both in our house. I love them both dearly and loved them being with us, but it brought a different plan to our days leading up to the holiday. This year, the tears streamed on Christmas night when I slept in my living room watching Polar Express, fascinated by the bright tree and devastated that it was the last night of the season. Even though it was filled with fun activities that I was incredibly grateful for, it changed our normal routine of the season, and I felt as if I didn’t allow myself to enjoy it to its fullest.
I have decided I love the lead-up instead of the actual holiday. I begin my Christmas excitement on Halloween night and let it spill out from then, decorating every inch of my house and watching movies every chance I get. Since that one year in fifth grade, I dusted off my old, pink radio and listened to a Christmas station every night while falling asleep to embrace the holiday as much as I could. I spend hours at Target or Meijer, gazing like a child at all of the Christmas decorations even though I’ve seen them thousands of times before. I love shopping for and wrapping presents, all of the Christmas baggage and cups from stores and Starbucks, and any of the activities that are associated with the time.
Each year, it feels as if there is less time to enjoy all the festivities. I want to return to the times when the season felt like its own year. The first night of realization, my grandma found me upstairs, hidden from the rest of our friends and family. She listened to me complain and reassured me that I’m not the only person who has the feeling of time flying. She gave me a pillow; I forget what the legitimate name was, but it was for whenever I needed a hug. It gave me a sense of reassurance that maybe time moving faster wasn’t as bad of a thing. The pillow is a small, fluffy, white square that still sits on my bed. It’s not quite big enough to use as a normal pillow, but it’s perfect for decorative reassurance.
The season rushing isn’t the only reason I despise the sensation but also because it is a direct sign of time moving in general and growing up. Things can’t stay the same, but every year, how Christmas lays out is different: this year my grandma will be in Arizona on Christmas, meaning we won’t go to her house on Christmas Eve and day as we normally do. It has worked itself out; we had an early Christmas, and the rest of our family will most likely gather.
This year, it feels like I put up our tree yesterday, but we have less than 20 days until Christmas. Last year, it seemed longer, and the year before that, it was even longer. I keep thinking about how boring life will return to after the 25th.
