For many of you, this is going to be a totally “duh” post.  But no lie — for me, it was a revelation.  Yes — sometimes my head really is this far up my own ass.

I am never going to get “my” Christmas back.  Fiercely as I may try to hold tight to my traditions, the Christmases of my youth are a thing of the past.  The reliable patterns of each of my families — the familiar conversations and foods, the reminiscing and teasing with cousins — those patterns can’t be sustained as a married adult trying to juggle a whole other family.

When I was little little, on my mom’s side of the family, we all used to go to church together on Christmas Eve.  We’d go to the children’s Mass at a popular St. Paul church while my grandparents stayed behind to finish the cooking and help Santa if need be.  When we left the house for church, we left a tree with a couple presents for each of us underneath it, and a grandma cooking up a storm (who still found time to hassle my grandpa about putting on a clean undershirt). When we returned, the magic had happened.  A spread of food fit for a king was laid out in front of us in the kitchen and dining room.  In the living room, spilling out from under the tree in all directions, were all of our presents.  There were 11 cousins, 6 siblings, and 4 spouses.  There were enough presents for at least 10 times as many people.  It was breathtaking and I can’t think of anything more exciting to a child than a room absolutely bursting with presents.  You couldn’t even walk into the room — you had to work your way in by handing out presents as you found them.  [Looking back, my grandparents and my aunt must have scrimped and saved all year to provide us with all those gifts.  They were by no means well off, but you would have thought they hit the jackpot every Christmas.  As an adult now, it is incredibly humbling to think of such generosity.]

When the last of the cousins stopped believing in Santa, the magic died a little.  All the gifts were laid out before church.  No surprises awaited us upon our return.  The pile of gifts dwindled.  I was still at an age where the presents really were the main attraction of Christmas and I remember how disheartening it was to have that magic gone.

But I got over it.  I found the joy in time with my family.  I learned to enjoy the conversation instead of wondering when we’d finally get to open our gifts.  I ate obscene amounts of food and loved every minute of it.

I adapted.

I will adapt to this too.

I won’t get my Christmas back, but I have a new priority now.  My mission is to give Mac the same Christmas magic that I had.  I want him to rely on and look forward to the same traditions year after year.  I want him to spend weeks knowing exactly what to expect out of this holiday and getting ridiculously excited for it.  I want him to get hungry for the same foods year after year that he knows are reliably served.

I want to give Mac my type of Christmas.  But I know that now it will be our Christmas — the one that works best for my little family.  Just because I can’t have my Christmas back doesn’t mean there aren’t still wonderful Christmases in our future.

I’m not totally at peace with seeing my Christmas slip through my fingers…but I’m getting there.