It’s funny how Christmas used to come and go without leaving much of a mark on me. Not like when I was younger, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always enjoyed the season—the lights, the food, the general sense of “hello, let’s be decent to each other for a change” that seems to bubble up. But for years, Christmas was just a comfortable rhythm, something I’d hum along to without really singing.
And then I had a kid.
Suddenly, Christmas wasn’t just a day; it was an event. A spectacle. A tornado of magic that showed up somewhere around late November and didn’t really leave until January. And the strangest thing happened: I started to feel it, really feel it. The sparkle, the joy, the overwhelming urge to hang twinkly lights on everything that didn’t already have them. My son didn’t just bring the magic of Christmas into their own world; they dragged me into it, too, kicking and screaming—though, admittedly, not very hard.
I think it was the little things that got me. Watching Nathan stare at the tree for the first time like it held all the secrets of the universe. Seeing his face light up when he hears a jingly bell or catches a glimpse of Santa at the mall—and he doesn’t even fully realize who Santa is yet! Even the chaos of unrolling miles of wrapping paper and finding tape stuck to places tape really shouldn’t be. It’s the kind of joy that sneaks up on you—the loud, messy, beautiful kind that fills a room and leaves no space for the grumpiness you thought you’d been saving up for years.
I used to think Christmas was about nostalgia, about revisiting the magic of your own childhood. And maybe it is, in a way. But what I didn’t see until now is that the real magic is in passing it on, and in creating it for someone else. My son doesn’t care about perfectly wrapped gifts or whether the lights outside are coordinated (they’re not—several bulbs are burned out, and I left it anyway). What they care about is the wonder—the “oh my gosh, is this real life?” look they get when they see snow falling, a stocking filled, or cookies mysteriously half-eaten in the morning.
So here I am, fully converted. I’m the person who blasts Christmas music while driving home from work. I’m the person who gets too competitive during the neighbourhood light display contest—at least what I choose to interpret as a contest. I’m the person who buys too many ornaments and somehow thinks, “Yep, we’ve got room for one more.”
And I have my son to thank for all of it. They’ve reminded me that the spirit of Christmas isn’t in the perfect; it’s in the shared. It’s in the laughter that echoes when a gingerbread house collapses. It’s in the sleepy goodnight after reading “The Night Before Christmas” for the fifth time. It’s in the way you suddenly find yourself standing in the middle of a toy store, holding a ridiculously oversized stuffed reindeer, thinking, “Yes, this is what joy looks like.”
Christmas didn’t change. I did. And it turns out, all it took was a tiny human to make me see the season in a whole new way. So now, when December rolls around, I’m not just along for the ride. I’m driving the freakin’ sleigh, wearing the Santa hat, and… yes…. singing every song I know. Because Christmas isn’t just a time of year. It’s a feeling. And, finally, I’ve found it.
The CJBuzz 