Earlier this week I spent a couple of hours playing elf at the local elementary school’s annual Recycle Sale. Each year, every child in the school gets to peruse a hodgepodge of new and used items and select holiday gifts for immediate family members, all for the price of a quarter per present. The kids look forward to the sale each year, and for the past nine years, I’ve been lucky enough to be there on Recycle Sale day to help wrap the treasures they find.
Of course, we’ll have to shift or do without lots of
traditions this year. There was, for instance, no holiday school concert this
December. But I’ll long remember my children’s first, when my now-8th
graders were in kindergarten and happily hopped around on stage doing the
Penguin Polka. (I can still sing that song, so often did they practice it at
We won’t have our annual sit-down dinner and present-opening extravaganza at my parents’ house on Christmas Eve. Instead, we’ll settle for an abbreviated visit, all of us spread out across the long room, rather than gathered together at the dining room table. I feel lucky to be able to do that, different as it may seem, given that many people won’t see their loved ones at all this Christmas. Likewise, what has become a tradition of Christmas morning brunch and more presents at my in-laws’ will likely be considerably more subdued this year.
Since my kids were babies, we’ve always hosted Christmas
dinner for extended family on both sides, cramming borrowed chairs around two
tables pushed together. There’s not a lot of elbow room at those tables once
everyone sits down, but the house is filled with good food, conversation, discarded
wrapping paper, and plenty of love. It will seem strange to have Christmas
dinner with just the five of us, at our regular table, without the noise and
bustle of nearly a dozen extra people.
But there are some things that will be the same. We’ll still make a mess of the kitchen while baking and decorating Christmas cookies. The kids and I will still sit together on the couch before bedtime on Christmas Eve to read ’Twas the Night Before Christmas. They no longer fit in my lap or believe in flying reindeer that land on the roof with “The prancing and pawing of each little hoof,” but reading Clement Clarke Moore’s poem set to Jan Brett’s whimsical illustrations remains a night before Christmas must.
On Christmas morning, the kids will still be up earlier than the grownups would like. And I’ll still make them sit on the top step for a photo before they come down to check out their presents. They know, now, who really brings those presents, so there’s less magic in that moment, perhaps, than there once was – but just as much joyful anticipation. While so much looks different this year – and this Christmas – I’m thankful and grateful for all that remains the same.
Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay
appears as Meghan's December 24, 2020 Close to Home column in the Littleton