Rediscovering the heart of the holidays by embracing the chaos, nostalgia, and fleeting magic of raising young kids.
I emerged from the shed, covered in cobwebs, dust, and an unexpected layer of excitement. It also could have been the glitter from my daughter’s recent Taylor Swift release party, but nonetheless, the storage tubs had been opened, my back was noticeably aching, and somewhere, Mariah Carey received her first royalty check of the year. The holiday season had officially arrived.
It’s a time that evokes core memories of special family moments, the perfect presents, and unforgettable traditions that help shape who we become. But for many of us boring adults, this time of year has morphed from childhood wonder and amazement to middle-aged anxiety and onerous obligations. Sure, the novelty of everything wears off as we get older, but I’ve learned at least one thing being a dad of three young girls: I never need to act my age.
I look around at the scattering of giant mismatched bins that sport cracks and peeling labels, each one with a story to tell. The “Adult Costumes & Halloween” bin (which always makes me chuckle) reminds me of my family’s chaotic trick-or-treating gauntlet just a few weeks earlier, followed by a chocolate-induced Halloween hangover for my kids.
But my days stealing Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from their baskets aren’t forever, and I’ll miss these costumed adventures in the years ahead. It wasn’t too long ago that I revelled in alphabetically sorting and recording my own prized candy, earned by a proud Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle who loved to scream, “Cowabunga!”
Jack-o’-lanterns and glowing witches set aside, a pumpkin patch-size of bins aptly labeled “FALL” spills from the shed. Scarecrows and festive gourds come rolling out, revealing one of those obnoxious decorative signs declaring, “It’s fall, y’all,” plus a flattened wreath that has seen far better Novembers.
Soft orange and brown hues paint the set for Thanksgiving. A box of annual handprint turkeys reminds me how much my kids have grown, an eye-roll-inducing line echoed by all the cousins and distant relatives when we convene just once a year.
But that’s just it—today is all about being together, eating good food, and celebrating another year of craziness. If I’ve learned anything, family (both blood and chosen) is the most important thing. The perfect pairing of pause and perspective on that fourth Thursday of November is arguably the best day of the year. But that fourth helping of sweet potatoes alongside ten straight hours of football isn’t too far behind. On your way out, please enjoy the corn maze and complimentary hay bale seating.
My wife and I weren’t always this way. Before kids, we scoffed at the neighbor’s lawn sporting an eight-foot inflatable penguin wearing a Santa hat. Never us, we’d say. I blink, and a half-decade later I’m asking the Home Depot associate if I should be concerned about this many extension cords connected to one outlet.
Show up to the Pierce residence in December, and you’ll hang with the snowman Olaf, a surfing Santa, reindeers of all ilk and name, plus a lighted garland entry that would make Bing Crosby jealous. And it’s all connected by Bluetooth timers. I feel like the twenty-first century Clark Griswold on the ladder trying to remember my Wi-Fi password.
Inside, we have trees. Multiple. We celebrate Christmas in our family, and apparently we need to be reminded in every room. For an unknown reason, everything smells like pine and slightly burnt sugar cookies. Holiday games, books, gadgets. Even my dogs play with themed squeakers and candy cane-shaped bones.
Once Christmas Eve arrives and the kids finally crash from the anticipation, my wife and I tuck the girls’ gifts around the tree and set the stage for Santa and his gang with carrots, cookies, and milk. The next morning, I’m awoken way too early by giggling children hyped on Christmas cheer, and I spend the next six hours inserting batteries, reading instructions, and cleaning up wrapping paper. I wouldn’t change a thing.
Then it’s December 31. We talk about the year that was, big plans for the next. My girls beg to stay up, saying all the cool kids have seen the clock hit midnight. Of course, all of us pass out before 9:00 p.m., barely waking for Ryan Seacrest’s rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” I know my countdowns with them are counting down, and I’ll miss this, too, even if everyone’s grumpy tomorrow.
A fews days later, it all goes back into the shed. Yeah, we channel our inner leprechaun on St. Patrick’s Day, go big with bunnies on Easter, and proudly rep the red, white, and blue in July, but there’s something about the holiday season that hits different. Especially as a dad.
Kids change your perspective on everything. You get to live vicariously through their experiences, both positive and negative, but only for a short time. These traditions help tell our family’s story. They’re all different and they’re all perfect because they grew from the family tree.
I hope all of us have a shed. Or a closet. Garage. Storage unit. Even just a box or drawer of things that remind us what makes the holidays so special after all.
Cue it, Mariah!
Leave a Reply