Maybe it’s the snow, or the simple joy of making paper snowflakes; maybe it’s the eggnog, or the thought of warm, cinnamon-sugar Pop Tarts on Christmas morning. It could be the Charlie Brown Christmas special, or movies like Elf and The Santa Clause; maybe it’s even the tacky holiday music, or those overdramatic commercials advertising ‘one-day-only’ sales every week in December. It could be the hats and mittens and scarves and gloves that I pile on in a futile effort to prevent the cold from seeping into my bones. It could be the frigid air that nevertheless permeates the multiple layers and turns my lips blue, or the cozy relief of a warm living room at night. Maybe it’s the lopsided snowmen that little kids insist on building, even if there’s only a dusting of snow; maybe it’s the way our Christmas tree leans a little more to the left every year, or the way we purposely put more ornaments on the right side to even it out. Whatever ‘it’ is – December is not the same without it.

If it isn’t blatantly obvious already – I love December and I love the holidays. While I do adore the mismatched Christmas lights and animated Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer cartoons from the 90’s, there’s something else I love even more about the holidays: they give me an excuse to be a little, wide-eyed, exuberant kid again. You know that kid I’m talking about – we all remember being that kid way back when – that kid who really really believes in Santa, and who really really just can’t wait for Christmas. I love that I’m-so-excited-I-have-to-keep-jumping-so-as-not-to-explode-with-excitement sort of feeling that I get every year right before I rip through the wrapping paper. Even though during the eleven other months of the year, I’m expected to be a mature, independent young lady, writing analytical English essays and prudently considering college options, this is the one month – the only month – when I can be a little kid again, gleefully counting down the days until that glorious morning.

I will admit that after 16 Decembers, Christmas isn’t what it was a decade ago. I’ve finally realized that, rather than giving my parents a Presidential-length brief on what I want, what it does, where to get it, and why in the world it costs this much, it’s just easier to order my own gifts. My parents, of course, always casually peer over my shoulder, trying to hide their confusion. Even though I can no longer hear the ringing of those silver bells in The Polar Express, the resounding music still gives me chills, and even though I know what I’m getting every year, at least I know that my parents won’t forget my gifts at home when we drive to my aunt’s house (which has, in fact, happened more times than you’d imagine). I’ll admit that I have figured out who really eats those cookies that we leave out, but that I also still keep tabs on Santa’s whereabouts on Christmas Eve via the official ‘Santa Tracker’ (www.noradsanta.org).

So no, December isn’t exactly what it used to be, but I wouldn’t say that any of the changes have been bad. Now, I can drive to the mall and back without my parents knowing what gifts I’ve bought, and I’ve finally learned how to wrap presents without using multiple rolls of tape. I’m also looking forward to different things this year: like helping out with the two oversized but absolutely delectable family meals, or purposely overlooking a few hidden candies on our annual chocolate-hunt, so that my little cousin can find them instead.

Even though I might want Christmas to always be exactly like it always was when I was five years old, I’ve regretfully acknowledged that that can’t happen. Nevertheless, there’s one tradition that never changes: lookout mom and dad – I have a whole trimester-worth of pinch pots and mugs from ceramics class that I know you just can’t wait to pretend to love.

Happy Holidays