There is nothing better than Christmas.
The familiar feeling of waking up before the crack of dawn and waking up my younger siblings with the enthusiastic whispers of presents. We always had a family rule to wait until 7:30 to wake our parents up and go downstairs, and those minutes were always the most excruciating as I watched the clock slowly tick.
I would look outside of my window to flurries of snow and the dark morning, providing a comforting warmth within my own home. I would wear matching pajamas with my family, and as soon as the clock read 7:30 am, we would leap out of my room and shake my parents awake with the mantra, “It’s Christmas, it’s Christmas, wake up!” I would take the stairs two at a time and race to be the first one to the presents. I kneeled at the fireplace, impatiently waiting to open my present from Santa and see what was in my stockings.
Year after year, I was astounded and amazed at how Santa surpassed my expectations and got me things I didn’t even know I wanted. One year, it was a magic set, and I spent the following weeks as a magician, showing everyone the multitude of tricks I had learned. One year, I received an art stand after months of begging for a desk in my room; although I lacked the space, I was slightly disappointed. It became one of my immediate new favorites, and I followed every YouTube tutorial on how to draw cute penguins.
A few years ago, it was a laptop case that my parents tried to convince me was a crayon holder to distract from the fact that the next present I opened was a laptop. Each year I have been wonderfully surprised and every year I think I couldn’t be happier with my presents.
As cliche as it is, and no matter how many times and different wording I put it into, frankly, I just miss being a kid.
As cliche as it is, and no matter how many times and different wording I put it into, frankly, I just miss being a kid. I may be 15, but I still wish I saw neon lights and toys underneath the wrapping paper. I wish I could go back and pull out an L.O.L. Surprise Doll from my stocking, even though I got bored with them after a week. I wish I still had three American Girl Dolls on my list and the ridiculous belief that I would receive the $200 “create your own” doll.
I still have passion, but it feels as if so much of it has faded, and with it, a lot of my hope has, too. When I was 9, I got a pack of stickers that read, “Recycle!” and a stamp with the same symbol. I had a dream that I would start a club and save the Earth; I would pick up every piece of trash I saw and would scold anyone who threw something recyclable in the trash.
I was filled with hope and innocence and the far-fetched belief that I alone could save the world. I wish I still had this optimism that if I simply believed in something, it had to be true, but I guess that’s a part of growing up.
Although a part of me will always loathe every year that passes for the increasing gap between me and my past Christmases, I don’t think growing up is always a bad thing. As completely and utterly terrified as I am, I’m still hopeful and a little bit excited for the future. I’ll always want my old Christmas back, but right now, I think I can finally say I’m excited for what’s to come.
