“There’s some people who only care about presents at Christmas,” my sage daughter related to me one night, “But not me.”
I smiled, recalling Linus’ ploy on the Christmas special from the other night. He told Santa he didn’t want anything and that he could skip their house this year. He hoped it would be refreshingly selfless, and therefore rewarded. I waited for a similar plot to unfold with my child.
“What’s important to you?”, I asked.
“It’s the magic, Mom. Everything is special. I love the lights and the joy. I get more snuggles too,” she beamed, mentally checking in on her list.
I remember when the light of Christmas went out for me. I was about 10. Gifts were disappointments, Santa was not relevant and our family events had become fighting grounds for aunts and uncles. It took me until I was 18 to find a new meaning for myself that was less consumer driven. And probably it wasn’t until she was born that I connected with the gnostic version of this season of light. And here she did it by age 8.
Mentally I vowed to increase snuggles all year round.