On holiday traditions, a house not yet ours, and the memories I can’t wait to make
I have already purchased the Christmas dishes.
Eight place settings, purchased for $25 on Facebook Marketplace, although I expect to set the table for six. I’ve thought about the table runner, the placemats, the chargers, and what kind of centerpiece might look best. I’ve considered whether the dishes will coordinate with the dining room furniture and how everything will look beneath the warm glow of the lights.
I have not yet figured out where the Christmas tree will go.
I also do not technically own the house yet.
But I have the dishes.
For several weeks now, I’ve been imagining our first Christmas in the new house. Not just Christmas morning, but the entire season. The decorations, the traditions, the food, the movies, the ordinary evenings that somehow become extraordinary simply because it’s December.
I’ve spent an unreasonable amount of time thinking about a holiday that is still two months away, in a house I haven’t moved into, with furniture that is currently scattered across various locations in Western New York.
But I can see it.
I can see the Christmas tree glowing in the living room, although its exact location remains a matter of some concern. I can see the dining table set beautifully, the dishes I’ve already purchased finally serving their intended purpose. I can see appetizers spread across the kitchen counters, family gathered around talking, the boys wandering in and out, and me feeling slightly overwhelmed because I have apparently decided to become a woman who hosts Christmas.
I’ve never been much of an entertainer. I’m an introvert. I like quiet. I like my routines. I like knowing that I can retreat to my own space whenever I want. And yet, I find myself looking forward to having people over.
Not constantly, of course. Let’s not get carried away.
But for Christmas? Absolutely.
I don't know exactly who will come or how many places I'll actually set. It might be just a few of us around the table. But I want the house to be warm and inviting. I want the table to be beautiful. I want there to be plenty of food, even if I end up making far too many appetizers because I have no idea how to estimate how much people will actually eat.
I want the sort of Christmas gathering where everyone feels comfortable, where the lights are soft, the food is good, and nobody is particularly interested in leaving.
Although I reserve the right to become interested in their departure after a reasonable number of hours.
I’ve said before that I want my house to look and feel like a Hallmark movie. And I mean that quite literally. I’ve spent years watching those movies, admiring the beautiful homes with their enormous Christmas trees, glowing fireplaces, perfectly decorated mantels, and dining tables that seem perpetually prepared for a holiday feast.
The women in these movies always seem to have lovely houses. They bake cookies in immaculate kitchens. They decorate with an effortless elegance that suggests they have never once wrestled with a tangled strand of Christmas lights. Their homes are warm and welcoming, filled with traditions and memories and people who arrive carrying beautifully wrapped presents.
Usually, there’s a handsome man involved, too.
He might be a widowed Christmas tree farmer, a small-town veterinarian, or an inexplicably successful businessman who has returned home to rediscover the true meaning of Christmas.
I haven’t managed that particular detail.
But I’ve got the house. I’ve got the boys. I’ve already bought the Christmas dishes. And frankly, I think I’m doing pretty well.
Of course, I understand that real life does not operate according to Hallmark’s production schedule. My kitchen will not remain spotless while we prepare food. Someone will probably spill something. The boys will argue over something ridiculous. I will almost certainly discover that I’ve forgotten an ingredient, a serving utensil, or an entire dish. And there will be no handsome Christmas tree farmer arriving at my door to help me hang the lights.
Unless he happens to be selling an antique buffet on Facebook Marketplace. In which case, I suppose anything is possible.
But the perfection isn’t really what I want.
It’s the feeling.
That sense of warmth and belonging. The glow of the lights against the windows. The sound of people talking in another room. The smell of something cooking. The comfortable clutter of a house being lived in and loved.
I want the kind of home that feels especially beautiful at Christmas, not because every decoration is perfectly placed, but because the people inside it are happy to be there.
More than anything, I keep thinking about Christmas morning.
I picture Caleb and Holden coming down the stairs, excited to see what Santa has left beneath the tree. I picture wrapping paper everywhere, presents scattered across the floor, and the boys talking over each other as they open their gifts.
Caleb is getting older now, nearly twelve. Holden is eight. They’re at different stages of childhood, with different interests and different ideas about what makes Christmas exciting. I know these mornings won’t last forever.
There will come a time when they sleep later, when the presents become more practical, when the magic changes into something quieter. Eventually, there may be Christmas mornings when they aren’t both sleeping under my roof.
I don’t particularly like thinking about that.
But perhaps that’s why this first Christmas feels so important to me. I want to give them a Christmas morning they’ll remember. I want them to wake up in their own bedrooms, run downstairs, and find the tree glowing in the living room of the house we finally get to call ours.
I want them to feel that this is home.
Not a temporary place. Not somewhere we’re staying until the next chapter begins.
Ours.
I want to make traditions here. Maybe some will be familiar, things we’ve always done. Maybe others will be new, little rituals that begin accidentally and somehow become part of our family history. I want them to remember the way the house looked at Christmas, the excitement of coming downstairs, the meals we shared, and the ordinary moments that seemed insignificant at the time.
And I want those memories for myself, too. I think that’s an important part of this. I’ve spent so much time thinking about the kind of childhood I want to give my boys that I sometimes forget I’m allowed to want things for myself.
And I want this.
I want to decorate my own house. I want to decide where the tree goes, what dishes we use, what food we serve, and how many Christmas decorations constitute an unreasonable amount. I want to curl up on my own couch with a blanket and a Diet Coke and watch Hallmark movies without worrying that I’m disturbing anyone. I want to leave the Christmas lights on simply because I like looking at them.
And I want to sit in the quiet after the boys have gone to bed, surrounded by the soft glow of the tree, and enjoy the particular peace of a home that belongs to us.
For the past two years, we’ve been living with my parents. They’ve given us a place to land, and I’m grateful for that. But there is a difference between being welcomed into someone else’s home and having one of your own. There are things you don’t do quite the same way. Decisions that aren’t entirely yours. Routines that have to accommodate other people. Small freedoms you don’t even realize you miss until you begin imagining having them again.
And Christmas is full of those small things.
Where to put the tree. When to decorate. What music to play. Whether to leave the lights on all evening. Whether to make an elaborate dinner or spend the afternoon eating leftovers and watching movies.
I want to make those decisions.
Not because anyone has prevented me from enjoying Christmas, but because I’m ready to create something that belongs to the three of us. Something that reflects who we are now.
I’ve thought a lot about what this house means to me. I’ve written about the search, the uncertainty, the disappointments, and the seemingly endless process of trying to make it ours.
I’ve fought over an appraisal. I’ve worried about deadlines. I’ve researched financing and closing procedures and all the complicated details that stand between wanting a house and actually owning one.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I’ve been buying Christmas dishes.
There’s something almost ridiculous about it.
While I’ve been waiting for government approvals and paperwork, I’ve been thinking about whether a lace placemat would look nice beneath a dinner plate. But perhaps that makes more sense than it seems. The paperwork is how I get the house.
The Christmas dishes are part of why I want it.
I don’t want a house simply to have a mortgage, a deed, or a place to put all the antique furniture I’ve been collecting. I want a place where our lives can happen. Where the boys can grow up. Where we can have ordinary evenings and lazy weekend mornings. Where I can turn on music while I clean, read in my library, and sit on the couch doing absolutely nothing.
And where, once a year, I can make the entire place look as though a Hallmark production crew has been given unlimited access to my Christmas decorations.
I know our first Christmas won’t be perfect. The house may still be a work in progress. There may be boxes I haven’t unpacked, furniture I haven’t found, and walls that still need decorating. I may discover that the Christmas tree doesn’t fit where I imagined it would. The table might not look quite the way I pictured it. I might burn something, forget something, or decide halfway through preparing appetizers that I have dramatically overestimated my enthusiasm for hosting.
But I don’t think any of that will matter very much.
Because the boys will be there.
The tree will be there.
And I’ll be there, in the house I’ve spent so long dreaming about, watching the life I’ve imagined finally unfold around me.
I’ve watched hundreds of Hallmark movies about people finding their way home for Christmas. Sometimes they inherit a house. Sometimes they return to their hometown. Sometimes they fall in love with a handsome stranger who owns a bakery, a Christmas tree farm, or an improbably profitable inn.
My story has involved considerably more federal paperwork.
And, so far, fewer handsome strangers.
But I think I like our version. A mother. Two boys. An old house filled with secondhand furniture, Christmas lights, and more holiday dishes than strictly necessary. No grand romantic rescue. No perfectly scripted ending... just the three of us, exactly where we belong.
And somewhere in the dining room, a table already set for Christmas.
I’ve spent so much time imagining what that first Christmas will look like. The tree. The presents. The food. The movies. The boys coming down the stairs. But I think the moment I’m looking forward to most might be the quiet one.
After the presents have been opened, after the food has been eaten, after everyone has gone home or gone to bed. When the house is still, the Christmas tree is glowing, and I’m sitting on my own couch, looking around at everything we’ve finally made ours.
No more imagining.
No more waiting.
Just Christmas.
At home.
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