I grew up in a house riddled
with traditions. We did everything the same way each year and
gloried in the magic of the repetition.
It just didn't feel like the holiday
season without cookies (the same ones each year), reading “The Night Before Christmas” (into
our 20’s), Christmas Story marathons, and breaking into the left-overs at 3 am. The second stage of life, where we began
incorporating spouses and their traditions, proved very challenging for our
family. I
fought to hang onto those traditions, and
when I finally had to let go and start doing my own thing, it was a struggle. I was the
first one to jump ship on the yearly Christmas traditions and it
stunk. Somehow, it just did not feel
right each year. In retrospect, I think it was because I just tried to take on the
traditions of my partner instead of
creating traditions for my family.
This year, with over 9
years of marital and personal pain behind me,
I entered the advent season bound and
determined to get the magic back. My tree went up Thanksgiving weekend. I
shopped for Christmas presents with an enthusiasm born of being deprived of
that ability for years. You do not know how much you are going to miss
fighting the Christmas madness in the toy isle until you simply cannot do it. We
have done our advent calendar, read the Christmas story as a family, and filled
the house with the sound of Christmas songs.
It is not the same as my childhood
traditions, but it has been magical
because it is ours. This weekend we
experienced the joy that comes from merging old traditions into new ones. We had our first family cookie bake with my children.
For the first time since I left home,
we decorated, baked, rolled, dipped, and iced for hours. It was total madness with cookies everywhere. I arrived home with white chocolate in my
hair and semi-sweet chocolate up my nose.
Staying awake was a challenge but not for my kids. They were riding the kind of sugar high that
only eight straight hours of baking, tasting, and decorating can provide. My son spent more time licking icing off his
hands than putting it on cookies. Every
moment was pure holiday bliss for me.
There was something powerful about watching my daughter roll and dip
angel cookies while my mom explained why we sprinkle
the cookies with water. I can recall
that experience in my own reservoir of holiday memories with absolute
clarity. It
felt like I was learning something important about making the holidays
special. You could see the same thing on
my sweet girl’s face. I don’t think she ever left the kitchen. Even when her brother left the chaos of the
kitchen for the more masculine activity of playing video games, she stayed
beside us watching and asking questions.
You could see the spark of our new tradition take hold inside of
her. By
the end of the night, she was making plans for teaching her brother’s
wife how to bake OUR cookies. Her
brother is seven years old, so she is making long-term plans. Dipping cookies and melting chocolate seems
like a silly thing to get emotional about but there is power in a family kitchen. As a child, my mother’s cooking always led to
some of my best memories. Family untied
over holiday favorites for times of fellowship and love. We came back every year looking for the same
food, not because of an overwhelming love of cabbage, but because of what the
food symbolized. Until this year, I have felt the distinct absence of that
power in my own kitchen. I cooked plenty
but not in the fashion, that makes
lifelong memories. Surrounded by the
giggles of both my kids, with my mother and older sister beside me, I finally
found the power of the kitchen. We did
not simply bake together. We made a
memory that will last a lifetime.
