I thought my way of doing Christmas was the right one. Becoming a mom softened my idea of perfection.
I was certain that I knew the correct and only way to celebrate Christmas.
Spending the holidays with my husband's family showed me that people celebrate differently.
I adopted two boys and realized there's no one and only way to celebrate.
Visiting my husband's hometown in Southwest Missouri over 20 years gave me more culture shock than studying abroad in Europe.
Raised in Northwest Iowa, my stoic upper Midwest upbringing frequently contrasted with the Southern culture in his hometown, not far from the Arkansas border. Strangers I met just five minutes prior inquired about my plans for babies, pushing me to discuss topics I rarely brought up with my closest friends. The smiles, sincere or not, were as sweet as the tea.
I persevered, however, because I loved this man, and therefore, I would learn to love and accept this different way of life.
Their way of celebrating Christmas was not my way
My positive attitude changed when I experienced their Christmas traditions.
Even at our most raucous, my family of origin's celebrations were orderly. Yes, larger family gatherings sometimes devolved into wrapping paper wars in a living room crammed way beyond fire code capacity. But that happened only after the well-organized gift opening.
In my family, Christmas revolved around our fresh-cut tree, its pine scent filling the room as we opened gifts in an orderly fashion. Starting with the youngest, each person unwrapped one present at a time, allowing for collective admiration and expressed appreciation. The day unfolded with quiet rhythms — Bing Crosby on the record player, Christmas movies on TV, and plenty of time to enjoy our gifts and each other's company.
This, I was sure, was the proper way to celebrate Christmas as a family.
Imagine my shock, then, when I attended my first Christmas gathering at my husband's house, ready for an orderly unwrapping, only to walk into a gift-opening melee. Everyone took their pile of gifts and, without fanfare, opened them all at once. There were no turns. There was no collective gasping, no posing for photos with my new sweater so Grandma could see how much I loved it, no feigned "thank yous" when I really didn't love the new sweater. Instead, every gift in the entire room was unwrapped unceremoniously in a matter of less than two minutes.
Did my new mother-in-law like the pink Angora sweater I gave her? How did my father-in-law feel about his work gloves? I had no idea because their reactions were lost under the wrapping paper.
This chaotic scene unfolded in front of an artificial tree that had become permanent in their dining room.
After the wild unwrapping and a shared meal, everyone put on coats and prepared to head outside. It was time for the next holiday tradition — a trip to the movie theater.
I could count on one hand the number of times I had been to the movies with my family, and we never went on a holiday. That was sacrilegious.
There was a correct to celebrate Christmas; this Missouri version wasn't it.
Raised to be "Iowa Nice," I didn't say a word about my disapproval, but my facial expressions said enough.
When we adopted 2 kids, we did the holidays our way
Later, a few years into our marriage, those "babies" finally arrived in the form of the 7 and 8-year-old sons my husband and I adopted.
That first Christmas, we worked hard not to overwhelm our children. Born in Ethiopia, they weren't used to the overstimulation that comes with large family gatherings. We kept the celebration simple and small, paring down the menu, the number of gifts, and the size of the gatherings.
It felt good.
The simpler, quiet rhythms of the season allowed me to focus on what really mattered. The four of us created new traditions that evolved over time. Sometimes, I roasted a turkey, and other times, we dined on delicious Ethiopian food. Some years, we binged NBA games after opening gifts, and other years, we'd laugh at but secretly enjoy Hallmark movies. Maybe we'd play a game, or maybe we'd hop in the car to look at Christmas lights.
With my parents, gifts are opened in turn; at my mother-in-law's, it's a fun-spirited free-for-all. My sons appreciate that there is no expectation to have the just-right reaction to packages of socks and underwear. Together, we've learned about flexibility and fluidity.
It turns out there's no formula for the perfect holiday, even if I'm still not willing to budge on the fresh-cut tree. The magic of the holidays isn't in the tree, the gifts, or even the order of opening them; it's in embracing the people you share them with — chaos and all.
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