Last night we drove.
As we do most years.
We drove around town, listening to Christmas carols and sometimes singing along (badly, I might add), looking at Christmas lights. Watching for the houses with the best displays. Admiring those that were especially colorful, or intricate, or retina-searing.
As we drove, “The First Noel” came on the radio. It took me a minute to realize that I was lost in the song, imagining playing it on the piano when I was a girl, singing with all my pre-teen heart. “The First Noel” was one of my favorites. “Silent Night.” “Greensleeves.” I played, and sang, and probably tortured my parents.
It was beautiful.
Christmases were beautiful. I remembered when I was five years old and got my first bicycle, dark blue and white with a sparkly banana seat and streamers flowing from the handlebars. I remembered the year my mother, inexplicably, crafted Santa and Mrs. Claus out of Reader’s Digests and red spray-paint. I remembered the Christmas Eve my cousins and I all received sleeping bags from our grandparents, unwrapping them in the glow of the tree. I remembered a shopping trip with Dad, sitting in a Hardee’s restaurant on the first day of winter in 1977. Or maybe it was 1978. He explained the solstice to me over hamburgers.
I remembered the sleigh bells that hung on the back door, and the enormous artificial wreath that my mom always put in the family room. And spaghetti dinners on Christmas Eve. And the annual sugar cookie cut-outs, when I was allowed to sort through all of Mom’s cookie cutters: the ancient metal reindeer and gingerbread man, the red plastic Santa, the green Christmas tree. And so many more. More cookie cutters. More memories.
Last night my memories of “The First Noel” told me the beautiful lie that my childhood was perfect. There is no possible way, I thought, that my children will have such magical memories. I shrank inside as I thought about yelling at them the evening before. And about the messy living room, and how a Christmas tree doesn’t look very pretty in a cluttered room. About how we didn’t take them to Breakfast with Santa because I was just too tired. And about how I’m never able to follow through with all my Christmas plans. I never get it all done. And I will never, I thought, ever make the kind of memories that my parents made for me.
As if on cue, Evan piped up from the back seat, “Looking at all these Christmas lights makes me feel happy.” His voice was quivering with excitement. Jensen added, “I love that we do this every year.”
Of course my childhood wasn’t perfect. Of course there were arguments and tears. There was even lumpy gravy at Christmas dinner. It happens.
Nor did my parents manufacture my memories for memories’ sake. The things I remember are artifacts of a content childhood that had moments of discontent, and of a loving family that didn’t always see eye-to-eye. The memories were never the goal. The happiness was.
As we drove last night, it was this tree that made Evan’s happiness spill over. This tree is the only source of light on its street. There are no other Christmas displays, and not so much as a streetlight. Just this tree, ablaze in the pitch-black night. This tree has a name. It is called The Magic Tree.
And I don’t know if the boys will always remember this particular tree, on this particular night, at this particular Christmas.
But that is not the goal.
This had me tearing up. (And I don’t do that easily!) I love what you say about memories not being manufactured. When ‘making Christmas memories’ is just one more item on our list, it falls flat, we end up yelling at the kids, etc. 95% of parenting is just being there, and that’s how memories are made. Your memories attest to that. And so do your kids.
Happy Christmas!
You totally get what I’m trying to say, Amy. It’s just here. And I hope what’s here is (by and large) good.
Love you, kid. Believe me, we are all flipping our switches this time of year–but hopefully the warm memories will outlive the tense ones.
Oooh, another memory: the year I got my very first Shaun Cassidy 8-track. (And have I mentioned how glad I am to have found you?)
Very sweet. My family went looking at the lights this year without me. Scheduling conflict. But they want to go again, because it wasn’t the same without the “ho famwy.”
WOW! (Reaction to tree pic) My guess is that, while they may or may not remember that specific tree, for sure they’ll remember the feelings—the excitement of being out after dark seeing the amazing lights (whatever they decorated), the coziness of the car and the warmth of the security and love they feel. Don’t worry, Teresa, you are creating precious memories. Merry Christmas to you all!! Love you!
Beautiful post, beautiful tree. The best memories aren’t manufactured, as you say. Hope your Christmas is full of surprising ones.
That picture is amazing! I’ve been thinking along the same lines recently… will it really matter how many batches of cookies we make? Will it matter if the stockings get hung just so, or if they’re in a pile on the end of the table? They’ll know. They’ll know they are/were loved, and we did the best we could. I think that’s what Christmas is about. Accepting people for what they are, and loving everything about it.
The things that I remember from childhood are memories that came from the random silly moments, the unintentional sublime. I always marvel at the effort we put ourselves through to make (or manufacture, as Amy so thoughtfully put it) memories for our kids. I think I’ve let myself off the hook for that, but I still struggle with the little stuff, with remaining present enough each day to really recognize the magic in the everyday.
Here’s hoping good memories always outweigh the bad! Beautiful, heartfelt post. Love the pic!
I have been thinking about this quite a bit this holiday season. About the memories that I have of my own childhood. About what my children will remember of theirs–of this life I am helping to create here in our home. Manufactured memories: I don’t think they work. I think we remember the smaller things. I think each person latches on to the things that make him or her feel special later on down the road. And who knows what those things will be. Then again, it seems your boys already feel that something special as you take the annual Christmas lights drive.
For me it seems the harder I try, the less I succeed. Or maybe it’s just recognizing that I’m trying that brings me down. I think the memories make themselves, in the end. But it’s hard to feel good about that when I, too, fail to get everything done during the 25 days leading up to Christmas.
Hmm. Pensive tonight. This post makes me weepy. Thank you for that. For this. For the Magic Tree.
Oh. Just oh. The Magic Tree makes me happy too. Thanks!
Hope 2010 is off to an auspicious start for you, fellow O’Keeffe admirer. I’ve tagged you over at my place; instructions are there but no rush and no pressure. It was a fun diversion for me