Now that the Big Show is over and “Christmas” has been taken down, packed away until next year (I’m so fucking happy to have my living room back to the way it’s supposed to look), I can’t help but think about what it’s all for, and why. Let’s get real clear here to start – Jesus is not the reason for my season. I’m pretty sure he was born in the summer. And I’m pretty sure his mother had sex. But, I digress.
I keep Christmas for two reasons. The first reason being: Because I always have. I was raised celebrating Christmas and I remember it to be an exciting, magical time. My mom would make me a fancy dress, or buy me one. Lots of partying – friends and family would come ‘round, nights when the adults sat at the kitchen table smoking and cocktailing while us kids tore up the house. I remember the foods we’d only eat at this time of year, and staying up late watching Christmas movies, falling asleep on the living room floor. And the buildup – nothing felt better than the buildup.
Santa always visited our house early on Christmas Eve – every year, without fail, we’d get back from dinner and celebrating with our dad’s side of the family, and there’d be an assload of presents under the tree for us kids. There were five of us. SO. AMAZING. How did that happen?! I don’t remember how old I was when I started to realize just how long it took my mom to get out to the car so we could head over to Grandma & Grandpa’s. It felt like she took for fucking ever to “finish getting ready”. Now I get it. Of course. Duh.
So, because I have a lot of lovely memories of Christmas, I want to give my girls the same – which is the second reason why I keep it. My girls are my reason for my season; it’s for them. They are for sure the stronger of the two reasons – they absolutely outweigh years and years of tradition. Because, without them, I don’t think I’d be as into it anymore. And I used to be really into it. It’s lost its magic for me and it’s not because I’m older – it’s the obligations where there used to be anticipation. It’s the excess full of elves that poop chocolate chips and garbage toys that come from Amazon. The fucking cardboard. The $35 for unimaginative drive-thru lights that pale in comparison to Candy Cane Lane in West Allis, WI. It just feels like a show. Everywhere. And so disingenuous. And not what I remember it to be.
Santa Claus is a version of Saint Nicholas, and Saint Nicholas was known for his kindness, and generosity, and helping those less fortunate than him. And he helped in secret. And it wasn’t about how much, as it was about what. And it’s not that hard to listen to the people you love. Pay attention to them. Note their interests, their wants, and how they change & grow throughout the seasons. And keep that in your back pocket as your way of keeping Christmas all year. Then at the end, give them your love instead of excess. This year I got two bags of Rising Cock coffee, wrapped in red paper with hearses on it. I felt so seen. Santa is love. Real love. Not a fat man in a red suit.
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Rachel Lewandowski