the unfettering

The beauty and magic of Christmas knocked me over again, as it does year after year. The early morning footsteps, the squeals, the voices begging us to get out of bed so the present opening can begin. (If you remember, last year, this started at 4:10am. This year, was a much more respectable 7:00am.)

The fear that hangs heavy in my heart through most of December - that someone will be disappointed, his or her little heart crushed - and that it will be all my fault, is finally put to rest. It's a hefty responsibility - one that has little to do with the baby Jesus - but everything to do with motherhood and the memories of Christmases past, and the generations of mothers before me who stayed up late sewing doll clothes or saving a few pennies from the groceries week after week to surprise their children with something they never expected.

Somehow, it always works out. And although I wish that part of Christmas, the gifting and the spending and the shopping, was somehow less stressful and less important, I strive each year to make sure my children understand how fortunate, how very blessed we are. We spend the other 364 days of the year saying "No. Sorry. Too expensive. Can't afford it." On this one day, it's a wonderful treat to make a few dreams come true.

We repeat our traditions - Christmas eve at the grandparents, church in the morning, monkey bread for breakfast, dinner on the good china. And although there is something in me that strains against rigid tradition, I know that these are the things that my children will do with their children. And are in fact, the very things that my grandparents did with their children. And I stand aside with my need for change and newness and grab onto the worn and weathered threads that bind all these generations together.

Our Christmas was lovely. How was yours?