By Jilliana Dickerson 
Being an overly enthusiastic child, I relished the holiday season. I grew up in sunny California, so our winters were not white. Some may claim that I could not have experienced the real Christmas magic without snow, but I can assure you they were just as exciting.
I have fond memories of picking out the perfect Christmas tree, waiting in line for Santa mall pictures with my sisters, and listening to holiday music all month long. I always looked forward to helping prepare Christmas Eve dinner, performing carols on the piano for my family, and opening Christmas crackers (English party poppers) with themed PJs all in anticipation for the next day. I distinctly recall that tingling sensation that kept me up at night knowing Santa was on his way.
Not that it was such a shock, but it was a little disappointing to find that all my letters I had hoped would be delivered to the North Pole were instead sitting in a clear tote bin in my parents’ closet (it is so sweet that my mom wanted to keep all of them though). By that time, I was old enough to notice the late-night clanking of my mom in the kitchen, her wrapping of the last of the gifts, and tidying the front rooms while I lay in bed. She painstakingly went over every detail to make sure the morning festive scene would be just right. Even with the knowledge that Santa was fictitious, I still felt the excitement of the holiday season.
My first Christmas spent away from home, I felt absolutely miserable. Even though the same Christmas activities took place, the day seemed empty. The following Christmases were no different. The giddy feeling no longer grew even when I put forth effort to do something festive to feel Christmas cheer. It felt like I went years without having a Christmas at all!
Then, what was lost in my Christmas dawned on me . . . my mother. The same Christmas activities did not feel the same without her special touch I grew up expecting each year. I could not appreciate the sentiment of Perry Como’s “(There’s No Place Like) Home for the Holidays” as a child, but I wholeheartedly relate to the message as an adult.
Maybe it is the maturity that comes with age, but I now see Christmas was never the stuff. It was not the stockings being stuffed to the brim; it was the way my mother so thoughtfully added trinkets she knew we’d enjoy (we could always count on a clementine orange in the stocking toe too). It was not the lit Christmas tree; it was the way my mother meticulously organized the ornaments so they would catch the light and be coordinated just so. It was not the elegant dinner we had; it was the time spent working with her in the kitchen and the family conversation over the meal. Christmas was the effort of a loving mother to set the day apart.
This will be my first Christmas with a child of my own, and the baton has been passed to me. I have contemplated which aspects resonate with me in hopes of recreating it for her. It is a special time to remember childhood traditions as well as create new ideas for my little family. I know she won’t remember these first few years, but I know they will lay the foundation of our Christmases that she can anticipate year after year. And, just maybe, playing Santa will even give me back that same enthusiasm for Christmas I have missed.
by Ellie Hunja 
by Jenny Albers 
