Christmas

I know, I know, it's still to early to do a Christmas post. I'm going to do one any way.


I used to be a real Grinch during the Christmas season. I remember in Middle School how much I hated what I considered a pale imitation of a pagan festival put on by Hallmark. Still, as Christmas got closer I'd get a childlike joy that I worked hard to squash into a tiny, bitter, little ball by Christmas Eve. I'd sit through Christmas services at church with a smirk on my face, attend my Great-Aunts Christmas Eve Party with an eye roll and a plead for my parents to let us leave in an hour. After the party we would always drive around looking at Christmas lights, I would pretend I was asleep in the car. We'd get home and Mom would make us change into the most horrific matching Christmas pajamas in the world. My sisters and I would dutifully put them on and go to bed.

The next morning we would all wait for our Grandparents to arrive, open our presents and after everything was open a terrible, awful, hateful thought would run through my mind: Is this it? Even as a preteen monster I felt awful for feeling that way. I couldn't figure out what I was missing, why Christmas stopped being fun, why I wasn't happy or excited for it any more.

It wasn't even about not getting what I wanted for Christmas, my parents always pulled out all the stops and I'll be the first to admit that my sisters and I were incredibly blessed and even spoiled by them during Christmas. It was something that I couldn't understand. Why was Christmas always such a huge build up and then such a huge letdown?

I felt that way until my Senior year of High School.