For the first time ever, we will not be going “home” for the holidays. Instead, we’ll be busy packing up our stuff so that we can move back “home” for good.
Even though I feel like I should be sad, I’m strangely excited about a quiet Christmas for just the three of us. In my heart, I am imagining baking gingerbread cookies while the tree twinkles in the family room by the fireplace and holiday tunes play from the radio.
In reality, I see piles of boxes, a pizza dinner, chaos and me and Mo trying to keep Maya from unpacking our boxes. Still, I am hopeful that I can get some sort of holiday cheer in.
I really love the holidays and get all kinds of chipper when I hear cheesy Christmas rock playing. Despite how much I enjoy the holidays, it’s also a bittersweet time for me. It makes me happy and brings back a flood of warm childhood memories. But it also makes me miss my mother more than any other time of year. Christmas and my mother are kind of synonymous with me. It’s not that she was super religious or anything (just the opposite in fact). But she always made sure that this time of year was fun for my brother and I. We would make ornaments together, decorate gingerbread houses and cookies, wrap presents, play carols on the piano, watch movies like “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “A Christmas Carol” and of course, trim the tree.
My mother used to just sit and watch the tree for hours. She would curl up in an armchair with a cup of tea in her hand and a smile on her lips.
Oh how I miss her.
Now that I have Maya, I cannot wait to do some of those things with her. I guess it’s my way of remembering my mother and also passing on some of those memories to Maya.