Discovering the Magic of Christmas as an Adult

I think I owe you an apology.

If you've ever sprinkled reindeer dust on your lawn, donned a hat with a sprig of mistletoe hanging off the front, or placed a giant inflatable penguin on your lawn, I'm sorry.

If you take your pets sit on Santa's lap, have elf shoes in an adult size, or any garment of clothing with a bedazzled "Ho Ho Ho" across the chest, I ask for absolution.

And most of all, if you are currently driving around in a car with antlers stuck to the top and a red nose on the grill, please forgive me.

Because for the past few decades, whether you know it or not, I have been making fun of you. I've mocked you silently and not so silently, rolled my eyes at the sight of you, and poo-pooed your holiday spirit. I've called you some not-so-nice names and questioned your intellectual prowess, and for that I'm deeply, deeply sorry.

Because I get it. I finally get it.

It took me 40 years and a little girl who grabbed my hand and yanked me out of an otherwise dreary, stressful day as we wandered through the grocery store parking lot, my brain processing through its never-ending to-do list (holiday and regular editions combined) on autopilot.

"OOH, Mommy look!!!!" she squealed in delight, her blue eyes blazing with excitement. "A Rudolph car!!!" She threw her head back right there in the middle of the parking lot and giggled hysterically. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me closer to the car.

"Shhhh! He's sleeping!" she warned me. "You can't touch him- he's…MAGIC."

And that's when it clicked: the magic.

I'd heard about it in songs and movies, but never actually believed in it.

And because I didn't believe in the magic, it was just easier to scoff at those who did.

Don't get me wrong- I certainly didn't grow up deprived as our tree was piled high with presents (most of them purchased in my mom's annual Christmas Eve shopping frenzy we dubbed "The Closing of the Malls") and the table overflowed with food. We wanted for nothing… except maybe a little magic.

I'm quite certain my scholarly, professional, serious, immigrant parents didn't even know about the magic. It's not like it comes in the "How to Live in America: Holiday Edition" newsletter. They did their very best at melding their version of Christmas (a serious, deeply religious holiday celebrated on January 7th as per the Orthodox calendar requiring 40 days of prayer and abstaining from all animal products to prepare) with that of their new home (Trees! Cookies! Lights! Elves! Beginning in August!!) as best they could, but there was very little pretense. And not much magic.

So for years I told myself the magic wasn't necessary. In fact, it was just plain excess. Who needs magic when you can have a perfectly fine holiday without it? I blanketed myself in reason and rationality aside so I could focus on other elements of the holiday season, like stress.

When I had my own children, I convinced myself that I was doing the right thing by not overindulging them in Christmas magic or saddling them with lofty expectations of magical holidays. Wouldn't magic only lead to disappointment when the (wo)man behind the curtain was revealed? Wouldn't it take away from our focus on the real meaning of Christmas? Who needs magic, anyway?

Turns out, I do.

Because this year in particular, Christmas started to feel a bit hollow. Already stretched far too thin in every direction, coping with a loved one in the hospital, faced with mounting work pressures, school parties, the shopping, the baking, the wrapping, the endless planning of every second of every day, there were only 2 choices: give into the stress, or give into the magic.

I chose Rudolph.

So here's to you, reindeer car. Here's to balancing the reason for the season with giggles and wonder and fun. Here's to not hiding in the past, but taking the best of what you've had and deciding for yourself what you want the future to be.

And here's to losing yourself in the big blue eyes of a 4-year-old girl.

Here's to a magical Christmas.

Unusual Resolutions for an Unusual New Year

I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around 2010. It sounds like a prescription from the optometrist, or a verse from a song designed to teach kids to count by tens. Backwards. But maybe I'm saying it wrong? Is it "Twenty-Ten" or "Two Thousand Ten?" Or maybe "Two-oh-one-oh?" Just hours into the new year and I'm already confused.

Maybe it's because I don't really want to let go of 2009. The sparkle of the holidays still lingers in our house, and I mean that quite literally because those glitter snowflakes I put up have shed all over basically every flat surface. But I'm still not quite ready to take them down. Though the Christmas tree is beginning to look a bit pathetic, I can't bring myself to separate it from the little boy who races down the stairs each morning and yells "1...2...3!" as I turn on the lights. Christmas 2009 was certainly a memorable one: the first ever for a sweet baby girl who arrived 6 months and 2 days before Santa; the first time a certain 2-year-old boy really understood what was going on. And I, for one, just don't want it to end.

"It will only get better," my been-there, done-that friends say, and I'm sure that's true. Because as wonderful as this past holiday season, and the year as a whole have been, there are definitely areas that could use some improvement. Which is why, like most people, I'm working on a list of New Year's Resolutions. But this year I resolve to not resolve anything involving weight loss or exercise. And let's face it, I will not likely write the Great American Novel in 2010, so I resolve not to resolve to do that either. In fact, in honor of this nonsensical sounding year, I'll think I'll try some non-resolutions.

1. I will change fewer diapers. No, I'm not going to leave my children to sit in filth, but I will allow others to help more when it comes to diaper duty and all the rest. And I suppose it's also time we get going on the Great Potty Training Adventure.

2. I will sit down more. Yes, I know all about the obesity epidemic and the lazy-fication of America. But in my corner of the world, I too often find myself hovering over the table at meal time, slicing grilled cheese sandwiches with one hand, mixing baby purees with the other, eating my own food with.... well, there's the problem. Even prisoners sit down to eat.

3. I will break traditions. At least the ones that no longer work for anyone involved. Like the giant family holiday get-together that takes place too late at night with too much food, too much drink, and too little quality time. "That's the way we've always done it" isn't a good enough reason to continue. New traditions have to start somewhere, and somewhere is now.

4. I will not always focus on the present. I'm pretty sure the moments that seem so incredibly stressful, so draining, so intolerable right now will look and feel very different 10, 20, or 30 years from now. When my son is 12 and is too cool to acknowledge me in public I'm sure I'll long for the days he begged me to sing "Frosty the Snowman" for the 27th time. Staying up all night with a coughing baby girl won't seem so bad when I'm staying up all night waiting for her to come home.

Sure, there are other areas of life that could use some work, but I'm just going to start with these four. I'm hoping that working on what matters most in my life will bring more inner nourishment than any new diet, more strength than any gym membership could provide. I'm still not sure what to call the year, but I pray that 365 days from now I'll be looking back, holding onto each last moment, and just calling it unforgettable.

Mona Shand is a TV and radio news reporter and a contributor to annarbor.com who lives in Brighton.

The Christmas Rush

'Twas the morning before Christmas and all through my house, the only sound to be heard was the click of my mouse. The children were sleeping all snug in their beds, but visions of Target kept dancing through my head. What time do they open, how crowded would it be? I need one more package to put under the tree! I threw on a sweatshirt, grabbed the keys to my sleigh, I was headed out the door until a small voice inside yelled "NO WAY!" No more toys, no more food, no more gifts no more bling. The voice said "NO" to the Christmas Eve urge to run out for "just one more thing."

It's a powerful urge, one I'm convinced has genetic links. My mom, a very busy career woman, always did the the bulk of her Christmas shopping on December 24th, closing out the stores and barely beating Santa home. Still mall-weary from the extreme effort, she'd then spend most of Christmas Day in the kitchen, cooking up a feast for the many relatives who poured in. Yes, our tree was piled high with gifts, and yes, our table did runneth over, but even as a child I felt uncomfortable and unhappy with the excess. I craved her presence more than the presents, I was hungry for something that couldn't be baked or sauteed.

The trend continued into my adult years, because let's face it, old habits are tough to change. But one year, they did. Unexpectedly, my mom had major surgery just days before Christmas and all thoughts of presents, wrapping, or food went straight out the wreath-free window. My aunt and cousin flew in from Egypt to be with us, and when we woke on Christmas morning I think it took a while to even remember what day it was. In a last minute decision we dragged the tree up from the basement and rummaged the cupboard for something to eat. The only gift we unwrapped was a project I had been working on for months- finally organizing the scattered, tattered photos from my parents' wedding into an album. We sat around the kitchen table together sipping mint tea, nibbling on whatever we found, pouring over those black-and-white photos from so long ago. I remember my mom looking at my dad with happy tears in her eyes, remembering that day 4 decades ago when their lives became one. I remember my aunt telling stories of the eight siblings whose faces peered back from those pages. You can call it relief from passing through a medical emergency, you can call it the spirit of simplicity. I just call it the best Christmas ever.

Sadly, the lessons of that Christmas were short-lived and faster than you can say "Holiday Excess" we've all returned to our usual ways. Now that I have my own children I understand the irony of Christmas: how the desire to give them the most wonderful holiday can be exactly what prevents us from doing just that. But this year more than ever, I'm also coming to understand that the holidays as we know them will not last forever. No one knows how many more Christmases my babies will be blessed with the gift of four living grandparents. Not even Santa can bring us promises of job security or good health.

So this year (and hopefully many more to come) I'm just saying no to any last minute holiday economic stimulus. The stockings could surely be more stuffed, and there won't be as many cookies to feast on. There are even some last-minute additions to our Christmas gathering who will not find gifts from us under the tree. To them I apologize, but if they truly love us I know they'll understand. There's nothing left on any store shelf that's worth losing time with the ones that I love.

If you need me, don't search the malls or the stores- look no further than the couch. That's where I'll be gazing at my semi-decorated tree with two wide-eyed little elves. I'll do my best from this Christmas Eve on to give them my full attention, time and love. And "just one more thing": Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

PS- Mom, please stop shopping now!