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Eighteen is kind of an odd number. It’s big if you’re talking about pounds gained or lost, how many times you sneeze in a row, or how many marriages you’ve had, but for many things it’s a relatively low number. Eighteen miles to your destination, 18 minutes until vacation starts, and for me 18 truffles in a box.

But 18 gets to be a gut wrenchingly small number when you realize that’s the number of times you have to make significant memories with your kids. Eighteen. That’s 18 birthdays where you can count on them being in your home and spoiling them with love. The number of Christmases you can have them at the tree, faces alight with anticipation. Well, that number may be more like 11, with the final seven being them trying to look too cool to care but knowing them like you do, you know they’re secretly excited for what’s inside the brightly wrapped boxes. Eighteen Halloweens to watch their personalities shine with their costume choices, even when they’re teens and too old for trick-or-treating, they still like the magic of the holiday.

Then there’s the day you wake up and realize, like I did not too long ago, the number is now three. THREE!

My oldest is 15 and he asked me if I’d started shopping for Christmas. It was September 7th. I snorted and said, “Umm, I haven’t even thought about Christmas and will not be thinking about it anytime soon.” I looked up and saw his face fall a little, but he covered it up quickly and shrugged.

That’s when it hit me: after celebrating this Christmas, I’ll be down to two.

I immediately chastised myself for my flippant reply to my son. He’s obviously still holding on to the joy of the holidays and I’m so mired down in the day-to-day pulls and needs of life, Christmas often seems like one more chore on my to-do list. One more holiday spent trying to get the perfect gift, please everyone, get things shipped in time. So much doing! So much worry!

It wasn’t always like this. Christmas used to be my favorite holiday. There was so much to do! And I loved all of it. I loved the shopping, often buying things in the middle of summer and hiding them in my closet. The shopping was fun and easy. They were usually into the easy things, you know, like any toy ever made. I could get a dinosaur, a car, and pajamas with their favorite cartoon character and I was a hero. Fill their stockings with candy, a new toothbrush, a coloring book and crayons, and it was a treasure chest of joy for them to comb through.


Now the things they’re into aren’t easy to buy in a store. Or cheap. Their lists read more like a marketing flyer for Apple or Xbox and don’t include any cartoon character pajamas. Because we’re a split family now, it means coordinating gifts with my ex to ensure we’re not buying duplicates or that I’m not buying bigger or better than him. It’s figuring out holiday schedules between various houses, visiting relatives, and lots of back and forth driving. So much doing! So much worry!

So, when it hit me recently that I only have three years left of the “doing” I thought about what that next Christmas will be like. Of course, I can’t predict the future, but what if my son decides to celebrate the holiday with friends or a new girlfriend? What if he’s not living at home and it’s just my younger son and me, trying to figure out how we move without my oldest in the room? Where do we sit, how quickly will the boxes be opened now that each one doesn’t have to wait for his brother to open and delight in his gifts? I just had the thought while writing this of who will help me moved the stupid Elf on the Shelf each night, since I now make my oldest do it, so I can go to bed. I realized by then, my youngest will have lost the magic of believing in a moving stuffed Elf.

I still have eight Christmases with my youngest but once my oldest is out of the house, it’ll be different. It will feel a little lonelier, a little less right. Even if he does come home for the holiday, he’ll now come home a man. Gone will be my little boy and in his place will be a man I will be working to get to know on a daily basis.

Because I can see some version of how different things will be, I’ve resolved to make the most of the three and eight I have left. I still have three where we’re all together. Where each boy opens one gift, we ooh and ahh, then the other boy opens a gift, and we repeat. Three more where we make gingerbread houses, the boys smiling when the box appears on the table, even though they’d never admit they still enjoy this activity to their friends. Three more where we go cut down a tree together, a tradition I’ve hated but now see as magical because it means we’re all together. Three more holidays of making a big Christmas Eve dinner that everyone groans about having to sit down to eat, because they want to get to opening their one Christmas Eve gift.

There will come a day when it’s just my husband and me. Presents might be shipped to far off addresses, the Elf on the Shelf will still sit on the mantle, but he’ll never move. Christmas Eve dinner might simply feel like too much work for just the two of us, and Christmas morning will mean we both sleep in as late as we want and go downstairs to an empty living room. No gifts from Santa waiting in front of the fireplace, no excited faces with messed up hair, cartoon character pajamas, and squeals of “Hurry up Mommy!” greeting me.

It’s enough to make me excited again for this Christmas.

One more year of so much doing, so much worry, and most of all, so much joy.

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Heather LeRoss

Heather LeRoss is the mom to two smelly but sweet boys and step-mom to another boy (he’s less smelly). She spends her days spinning in circles of crazy wearing a tiara, gripping a glass of champagne. Heather is a lover of fine boxed wine and chocolate. She hopes to someday be known as “Heather” again and not, “those boys’ mom.” Follow the funny and heart feels on Tipsy Tiaras and on Facebook.

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