Last Christmas, the flu hit our family. It was brutal, hitting Henry first the week before Christmas. He is notorious in our house for having the constitution of a Victorian child in winter when he gets sick. The pitiful days on the couch as we approached the holiday were slow and quiet. Even his twin, who is a tornado of activity, knew his brother needed rest and quiet. He was so sweet, and he lay on the other end of the couch, holding his brother’s foot, just like when they were small.
The time it took you to read that last sentence was the time it took me to realize, in reality, that on December 22, both boys were down for the count. I did the mom math. Henry got sick on the 19th. He may be well by Christmas Eve, but Sammy was lying on the couch watching a full-length movie… My hyperactive boy was clearly succumbing to the sickness. Christmas quickly changed course. I stood in my kitchen, surrounded by bourbon balls, Christmas crack, and other homemade treats ready to box up and take to friends, and realized I had to, then and there, set my expectation down for this holiday and go with the flow.
Sick Christmas meant packing up the presents and food for my in-laws’ Christmas Eve celebration and sending my husband and two of the kids (Henry had made a beautiful recovery by then) to enjoy it. Sammy and I got in our Christmas PJs and settled in to watch every Christmas special I could find that featured his favorite characters. He napped and cuddled and watched more television that evening than he had in his 5 years prior. My usual FOMO and anger at the change in plans subsided as I shared that cold night with my boy, as I realized this may never happen like this again, and that made it special.
I was proud of myself that day for the maturity that took me close to 40 years to achieve, of not crashing out at a changed plan. The bucking of tradition was an interruption, but there was good to be found. I will always remember that Christmas as one of peace, as I tucked my children in and looked around the quiet, candlelit house with my husband, content with peace in our safe space.
For all the years I cried at changed plans or bemoaned family for flaking out on traditions I held on a pedestal, I was now regretful that I let my peace go with plans instead of finding it in the moment. Christmas will always come again. There will be more chances to do the things we love. Changes will happen with the people we love. The flow of it all is beautiful and not worth the tears spilled at the lack of perfection.
I am still learning to relax in these times. To let the time with my family and friends unfold with little to no expectation. To make the moment what I can and be present in it. Tomorrow, next week, the whole New Year will come along, and there will always be something more. If you need gentle reminders of a peace-filled season instead of a marathon run that leaves you exhausted, find peace in the simplicity of the season. A savior sent to Earth by a creator who loves us. Occurring in the quiet stillness of a barn.
I recommend Beth Kempton’s The Calm Christmas Podcast to anyone who needs to slow down this year and capture the moments of this beautiful life, as unpredictable as they tend to be. Give yourself grace to cancel the plan. To do less. To be cozy and warm with a sick little one in a quiet house, if that is the Christmas you find yourself in. These days will come again, but they never look the same. Let go of the perfection to hold onto the memory forever. Better than to look back on the haze of regret or the blur of too much of yourself being given.