Christmas has begun to look different lately.
Growing up, I always knew exactly what to expect. Christmas Eve was at our house, every year without fail. A big family party filled the living room — both sides of the family, shoulder to shoulder, crowding around a long table pushed up against the wall. It overflowed with food: stuffed bread, mini hot dogs in barbecue, pepperoni dip, cookies from Grandma. I’d pick at it all night, one bite at a time.
The days leading up to Christmas Eve were a whirlwind of frantic cleaning and predictable fights. My dad, on one of his infamous cleaning rampages, would bark orders while I resisted them — a stubborn child who hated being told what to do. Eventually, the dust would settle, the house would shine, and by five o’clock, we’d be waiting for the first guest. It was usually Papa, showing up with some questionable Italian appetizer (calamari, again?) and a request for beer, his laughter bouncing through the house like a bell. The rest of the family would follow: aunts, uncles, cousins, arms full of gifts that piled up under the tree.
Back then, Christmas had a script. We tracked Santa for the little cousins, Facetimed Grandma once she moved to Florida. Before tech took over, we entertained ourselves with cringe-worthy Christmas plays — my cousins and I, delightfully unaware of how bad we were. We laughed. We ate. We opened gifts. I went to bed full and happy, heart fed by food and familiarity. Even as an introvert, it was the one social event I looked forward to all year.
Christmas morning had its own ritual: my brother and I waking up at dawn, dragging our sleepy parents to the tree. Stockings first, then presents, always with A Christmas Story humming in the background. Later came brunch with relatives who didn’t have little ones at home, then dinner with my dad’s side of the family. In more recent years, my Aunt Karin and I had even started a new tradition — a Christmas night movie at the theater, just the two of us.
It was all so known. So expected. So good.
As someone who craves routine and hates change, I thrived in that predictability. I’m also deeply nostalgic, and Christmas brings that part of me to the surface. These are the memories I hold closest — the kind I want to give my own children.
But things started to shift once my brother and I became parents ourselves. With five kids between us now, everything got bigger, louder, and harder to coordinate. Christmas Eve stopped happening at my parents’ house. The location changed from year to year — this aunt’s house, that one’s — and the plans came together last minute. The script was gone. I tried to salvage it by bringing along games, suggesting new traditions, trying to recreate a sense of rhythm.
This year, change is knocking again. Family rifts. Complicated schedules. Uncertainty. For weeks, I asked my parents and brother: what are we doing? No one knew. We finally landed on something: a smaller gathering at my parents’ house again, just our two families. I begged for nostalgia — my mom’s pepperoni dip, the mini wieners in barbecue — and we made an extensive list of appetizers and desserts. It felt like a step toward the familiar.
At nearly five, Caleb is old enough now to get it. To understand Santa. To light up at the mention of Christmas. And Holden, too, is starting to take it all in. I know they’re on the cusp of remembering. And I want so badly to give them something to remember.
I want them to have their snacks. Their songs. Their stories. I want them to know what to expect every Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. I want to give them the comfort and anticipation that made my own childhood holidays so special. I want them, when they’re 30, to smile at the memories.
So I’ve been brainstorming. Tossing around ideas with Jerry, with my parents. A new Christmas book every year on Christmas Eve, read together in matching PJs with hot cocoa. A movie night. A live nativity walk. A Christmas cruise, someday, with my grandma in tow. A cookie exchange that I hosted this year — maybe the first of many. A new town event we’re trying called Christmas Under the Stars. Maybe one of these will stick. Maybe they won’t.
We already have one new tradition: Jerry and I started attending Yuletide in the Country three years ago. The first year, we didn’t know it would become a thing. Now, it’s ours. I look forward to taking the boys someday. Maybe that’s how traditions start — not with intention, but with repetition.
This time of year makes me ache for the past while hoping for the future. I’m desperately seeking tradition — something solid to hold onto in all this change. Letting go of what was has been harder than I expected. But maybe the new memories will someday shine just as bright. Maybe my boys will look back and say, this is what we always did. Maybe one day, they’ll call me from their own kitchens, asking for the pepperoni dip recipe.
The magic I felt as a child wasn’t an accident. It was made — by my parents, by my aunts and uncles. Now it’s my turn. I’m still working out the kinks. Still figuring out how to be the magic-maker. But we’ll get there. One tradition at a time.
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