I used to think Christmas magic was something you either had or you didn’t. A finite resource handed out generously in childhood and slowly collected back by adulthood, like toys donated to a younger generation. Somewhere between paying bills, meeting deadlines, and remembering to buy trash bags, the sparkle dulled.
Then I became a mom. This is my first Christmas preparing the holiday not just for myself or with family, but for a child. And in the quiet moments between feedings, laundry loads and half-finished drinks laying around the house, I’ve discovered something unexpected. Christmas feels magical again in a way it hasn’t since I was a kid.
The preparations look different now. They are less about finding the perfect gift and more about imagining the moment a tiny pair of eyes takes everything in for the first time.
The lights. The tree. The crackle of a fireplace. The music that seems to hum through the house even when it isn’t playing.
I find myself slowing down, noticing details I rushed past for years. The glow of the kitchen in the early morning, the smell of a pine scented mixed with something baking, the way the house feels warmer simply because it’s December.
There’s a new kind of pressure, too. Not the stressful kind, but the tender kind. The desire to get it right. To build traditions, even if I don’t yet know which ones will stick. To create memories that might one day be recalled the way I remember my own childhood Christmases, imperfect, a little chaotic, but full of warmth.
I know this Christmas won’t be remembered by him. He won’t remember the next couple of Christmases, but this awe and wonder that he has will be burned into my memories forever.
I’ve learned that “holiday magic” isn’t something purchased or staged for social media. It’s made in ordinary moments.
It’s folding tiny footie pajamas and imagining future Christmas mornings. It’s decorating the house while humming carols I haven’t thought about in years. It’s realizing that the traditions I once took for granted didn’t appear by accident, someone before me worked quietly and worked hard to make them happen.
As a kid, Christmas just arrived. My parents put up thousands of lights every year, decorated the inside of the house to look like a holiday edition of Better Homes and Gardens threw up on it. We baked thousands of biscochitos and made hundreds of tamales, and every Christmas morning I’d wake up to the amazing smell of fresh cinnamon rolls and a pile of presents under the tree.
As a mom, I see now how much effort went into that arrival. The planning. The patience. The love layered into every small detail. And instead of making the holiday feel heavier, that realization has made it sweeter.
The magic is on us now. Skyler and I get to be the ones to breathe life into these traditions.
This year, the tree doesn’t have to be perfect, who needs a star when you have a Buffalo Bills Toboggan topping your tree?
The wrapping paper doesn’t have to match. It’s almost more special that it doesn’t.
The schedule doesn’t have to be full. What matters is the feeling. The sense that something special is unfolding, even in the middle of everyday life.
Seeing Jamison experience all of this for the first time is beautiful. He likes to lay under the tree, surrounded by presents, staring up at the lights and ornaments, with the biggest smile on his face.
When we walk past the Manger in our neighbors yard he stares at baby Jesus like “Hey! I know him!”
For the first time in a long time, Christmas feels less like a date on the calendar and more like a season of becoming. Becoming a family. Becoming the keeper of traditions. Becoming the reason the magic exists at all.
And in the soft glow of December, I’m discovering that while childhood Christmas magic may fade, it doesn’t disappear. It just waits until you’re ready to create it for someone else.
Be kind to your neighbors Be kind to your pets It’s flu season so DON’T KISS BABIES And Have a very merry Christmas