Two Scrooges

It's that time of the year again. And as much as I'd like to shut my brain off and just go to the mall like everyone else, I find the holiday season to be one of the most difficult times of the year.

Well, maybe I'm being overly dramatic. But my frustration with the holidays are rooted in a slow progression away from the traditional concept of Christmas celebrations.

As a young girl, this was my favorite time of year by far. Steeped in careful tradition and stories of Christmas' past, the month of December played out like a well-read book, year after year. There was the gift wish list, given to Mom early in the month. The same cookie recipes baked with love and decorated by all of us girls. The shopping trips and gift wrapping sessions. The same holiday albums on repeat and the same movies, now known so well we can all recite lines even in the middle of summer. And then the tree: every year we would get a real evergreen - sometimes going out to cut it ourselves - and the night that we all decorated it was taken so seriously that usually my parents ended up arguing about something silly. Dad always brought the tree in and set it up. Mom always strung the lights. And the rest of us worked until every ornament was hung, always stopping for nostalgic smiles and stories when certain old bulbs were brought out.

The traditions continued, right through the holiday, and became more and more solid. Christmas Eve was Gramma's party, filled with its own rituals: singing carols and finding the ring in the advent tree and singing Happy Birthday to my aunt who was born Christmas Day. And on the 25th, we usually relaxed a bit... but the day was always filled with two very rigid traditions: opening gifts all morning long, each attempting to guess every one and sometimes spanning into the evening; and Mom's homemade breakfast and dinner, usually consisting of scones or pancakes then a baked Ham, usually shared with the Grams or other single family members that might be joining us that day.

Now that my sister and I are adults - myself married and five hours from home, my sister with a son of her own and living in Florida - keeping these traditions has grown more and more difficult. But every year, my parents do their best to maintain the schedule.

I admit that I love these traditions, and the feeling of being home and hearing the familiar skip in a holiday record that has been there since I was a little girl. And I love gathering around the tree on Christmas morning, drinking coffee and guessing each other's gifts, all of us always trying to stump Dad - the Master Guesser.

But what's changed in me has been a consciousness in tradition - an ability to connect to the purpose of these holiday routines and separate them from commercial spillover. And the ability to let go and make room for flux and flow of new, different traditions with my own family.

This is what makes the holidays difficult for me. In short, I sometimes see us blindly following these traditions out of habit and cold obligation. And to me, it becomes pointless and any true meaning behind Christmas becomes lost in all of the tinsel and wrapping paper.

John and I have tried to make our own little traditions, giving respect to our upbringings while charting our own path. We have a little tiny tree and a few decorations that have been given to us, and we have taken the time to make about 80% of the gifts we'll be giving out. In fact, tomorrow we'll be in the kitchen making our last edible presents for friends and family and I'm sure Bing Crosby and Mel Torme will be in the background. And it'll be a blast.

But it seems like the past few years December has been filled with a lot more frustration than fun, and sometimes I wonder if we're turning into two Scrooges. We're making an effort, for sure, but there are still some things where we draw the line: we're not buying each other gifts, we're not going to church, and I'm not - I repeat - NOT - going to the mall.

Happy Holidays!