A Pandemic Christmas

Christmas 2020, the pandemic raged with omicron. A surge in cases at the high school had also put a hold on Joseph’s in-person classes and his senior swim season. Maddie had come home for Thanksgiving her junior year of college knowing she’d be stuck in our house until mid-January.

She was so bummed her junior year was unfolding so weirdly too. The year before she had finally found her people and her activities—it was a joy to Mark and me to watch her bloom into herself. Until the pandemic struck. The rug had been ripped out from under her with lockdown and she didn’t seem to know how to find her way back. This year, rather than being replaced, it was being thrown further and further away. I ached for her, but I also didn’t know what to do. Everything felt bleak.

But, one evening after dinner, unexpected giggles floated from the oversized leather chair in the family room where the kids sat together busily writing. In a few minutes, Maddie announced with authority, “We’ve decided we’re going to do every tradition we’ve ever had for Christmas this year.” 

Joseph shook out the rumpled piece of paper. “We think we’ve gotten them all,” he said solemnly and read off their work. 

As the words tumbled from Joseph’s mouth, a grin spread across Mark’s face. Mark is a tradition Nazi. If we do it once (and he enjoys it), it’s a tradition. At Christmas, he’s in his absolute element. Everything was on the list, and he hadn’t had to plant any seeds. All of this came from them.

I cut up four slips of paper, and we each drew a name. You had to do something nice for your person every day and, each Sunday during Advent, give your person a small gift before we drew new names. Fridays were order-out day (a new addition)—we took turns choosing local restaurants to order takeout. 

The decorations went up and Mark and the kids set out to cut our tree. They choose a gorgeous specimen whose diameter swallowed half of our ample living room. Hot chocolate was made and Christmas carols put on repeat. The festivities had begun!

That holiday season was magical—I think even our housebound kids thought so. I had wrapped up 24 kids’ Christmas books or Christmas videos and put them under the tree, and every night after dinner, one of them would remind us that we needed to “do Advent”. I read the Bible story that went with that day’s Jesse tree ornament, Maddie colored the tagboard decoration, and Joseph hung it from the garland in the family room. Then they would run to the living room to choose a book to unwrap. 

This might have been Mark and my favorite part of the evening ritual. Giggles would erupt as they negotiated whose turn it was to choose. A significant amount of rustling would occur as they tried to identify the books by shape. “I want Mrs. Christmas,” Maddie declared. “That one’s my favorite! I got that one when Alexia and I saw Father Christmas in London,” she informed her brother while feeling the packages for the correct tome. 

She presented her find to Mark, who assumed the position of reader. He drew himself up and cleared his throat, just as he used to do when the kids were little, and the story would commence, a cat always curled up in his lap.

On Joseph’s night, we heard, “Oh! I think this is The Polar Express! We have to save that one for Christmas Eve!” He tucked the wrapped package to the side and then returned to search for Amelia Bedelia. When he tore the paper off, it wasn’t Amelia, but The Nutcracker was a good read, and now he had a challenge for the following evening. By the light of day, I found each of them, more than once, secretly feeling about the packages trying to guess their contents.

The season continued, presents were purchased and wrapped, Joseph played Christmas carols on the piano, and one day, Maddie even asked for a lesson. Under her brother’s tutelage, she practiced Away in a Manger relentlessly to perform for us Christmas Eve. 

Covid had canceled much of our usual Christmas Eve, so a new plan was devised. Our traditional Christmas dinner would be on Christmas Eve, and Maddie wanted to add homemade French onion soup to the menu. Joseph decided if we were going to set the table with the good china, we should dress up. He could wear the tux provided by the high school symphonic band—what would the rest of us do? Maddie’s eyes lit up. “I’ll have to go shopping,” she said. Maddie is an excellent thrifter. 

After much conferring, we decided we’d meet in the living room at 7:00 for drinks and appetizers, and since no one was driving, the underaged would be allowed to drink. Then we’d move to the dining room for a gourmet feast, which would be followed by a “religious viewing” of some kind (Joseph, our music guru, was in charge of that). Afterwards, we’d move to the family room for the reading of The Polar Express, followed immediately by a viewing of the Tom Hanks classic of the same name. Having experienced both versions, we’d then be able to compare their qualities more accurately over a glass of champagne. Finally, Santa’s snacks would be laid out and his scotch selected before we hit the hay to wait for the Big Man’s arrival.

The traditional Christmas Eve football game (as usual, Maddie and Mom lost) was followed by a board game accompanied by Christmas carols and hot chocolate from the Christmas Vacation moose mug segued into a perfect rendering of the above plan—complete with Maddie robbing my jewelry box and me borrowing her tights. Even as the day was unfolding, I knew it was special, and I soaked it in, trying to absorb every detail.

It wasn’t our last Christmas as a family of four, but unbeknownst to me, we didn’t have many more. I’m actually glad I didn’t know it was a last of sorts. I knew it was special, but I wasn’t already longing for what wasn’t yet lost. 

Years before, Maddie had cried about a missed event, “But, Mom, I wish I had known the last time was the last!” She had been sure that, had she been aware that she was experiencing a last, she would have savored every minute more intensely, somehow felt it more deeply in her bones, than she actually had.

Her words have stayed with me. I’m not great at living in the moment, and many times I think I would have taken a different approach had I known I was experiencing a last. What I hadn’t realized was the demands of such heightened awareness—knowing the last time is the last—make it a very raw place to live. 

Six months later, I would be acutely aware of an unfolding last in the week prior to both kids leaving for college. Mark would try to keep me together. It wasn’t over, he’d say. It would just be different. But in that moment, I wouldn’t want different. Greedily, I’d want more. Different looked like nothing but a hard ending, and different felt empty, very empty. 

So, perhaps it was fortunate I didn’t realize that magical Advent and Christmas of 2020 was closing in on a last. Or, rather, what was fortunate was that I was fully present to that season in all the details. I savored each moment in December of 2020, and I savor them even more now when I replay that Christmas in my head. I may have deep regret over the week I anticipated empty nesting, but when the box of Christmas books comes out each December, there’s no regret. Instead, I hear the magic of laughter under the tree as the night’s read aloud was chosen.

I absolutely do want more, but I don’t think it’s because I’m greedy. I just know how good it can be. And I’m grateful I know that, even though having that knowledge makes the quiet of now resonate a little more loudly.

I don’t think actually knowing a last is a last makes it even more poignant, more special. What I, and perhaps Maddie too on occasion, have looked for is the quality of being fully present, of soaking in every detail as it unfolds. Not because it is a last but because now is special and worth savoring.