During the holiday season, my two children love to recount their most profound memories of Christmases past. At ages 9 and 11, they have just under and over a decade’s worth of recollections to pull from. And for a pair of kids whose parents have put an awful lot of time, thought, and resources into making sure Christmastime is as merry and magical as it possibly can be, the remembrances they choose to recount often fall short of holly jolly.
“Hey, Mom, remember that time you signed up to be the angel in the live nativity at my preschool, and you had to go barefoot because you were wearing cowboy boots that did not match the angel’s robe? And then when you took your boots off, you weren’t even wearing socks, and your toenails were painted black? And I was really embarrassed because I didn’t think angels would really wear black nail polish? And I told my best friend they probably should have asked Savannah’s mom to be the angel instead of you, because she is very beautiful and fancy, and doesn’t wear black nail polish?”
“Mom, how come Santa is supposed to be magic, he has all these elves to help him, and his sleigh is big enough to fit toys for every boy and girl in the entire world, but that one time he completely forgot to take his trash with him, and he littered, and we found all the boxes from our presents hidden behind the toolshed?”
“Mama, how come that one year you thought it would be a good idea to try to dress Annie [our dearly departed yellow lab] up as a reindeer and hook her up to our wagon filled with toys for our Christmas card picture? Remember how she saw a squirrel and knocked the wagon over, and all the toys spilled out? And then she tripped me and made me cry, and my little Santa suit got dirty? And sissy was already crying because her elf ears were too tight and really itchy? And then everyone was crying, even you?”
“Remember when you and Dad both got the flu during Christmas, and somehow our Elf on the Shelf didn’t move for, like, a whole week?”
“Remember how Santa keeps forgetting that I ask for a PlayStation 5, an iPhone, and a puppy every single year, but he always brings me things I didn’t even ask for, like puzzles, underwear, multiplication flash cards, and mouthwash?”
The answer is always, “Yes, of course I remember.” I remember because my children won’t seem to let me forget the handful of times that our Yuletide happenings may have come up a little short. And I don’t think that they love to recount these things because they are ungrateful or malicious—it’s just that in the eyes of a child, the holiday season is just so very full of magic and wonder, that anything less than completely marvelous is difficult to even comprehend.
I am also fairly certain that with time and a little perspective, these lamentable recollections will fade, and what they will really remember most in the long run are the holiday moments that truly did feel like magic.
After all, some of my best and most profound memories of my own childhood are from the Christmas season spent with my close-knit family. Traditional Christmas Eve dinner at my grandparents’ house served on fancy Spode Christmas Tree china. Sitting around a crackling fire, sipping nutmeg-sprinkled eggnog out of pewter cups specifically reserved for this occasion. Coming out of the 11 p.m. Christmas Eve candlelight service, well past our normal bedtime, into the cold night air, and feeling the anticipation of the clock striking midnight to officially herald in Christmas Day. Waking up on Christmas morning and impatiently waiting with my three younger siblings at the top of the stairs in our matching pajamas for our parents to call us down to see if Santa’s sleigh had stopped at our house. Discovering a beautifully arranged selection of gifts and a stocking full of little surprises just for me, and squealing along with my sisters and brother, much to the delight of my beaming mom and dad. Loading into our family minivan and spending the three-hour drive to my grandparents’ farm for another round of holiday festivities, entertaining myself with a bag full of everything Santa brought: the latest Baby-Sitters Club novel, a Sony Walkman and accompanying Celine Dion cassette tape, a Petite Miss makeup kit, and Tetris on my brand new Nintendo Game Boy. Going to bed on Christmas night in a warm, cozy bed, feeling utterly exhausted and completely happy.
Even if I think really hard, I can’t dredge up a single negative memory from my first 17 Christmases as a child. Surely, there were times that Santa didn’t bring me exactly what I’d asked for, or our family Christmas card photo session was wrought with uncomfortable outfits and one too many poses. Times when I was a little too antsy during the Christmas Eve service sermon, or my siblings and I bickered all the way to the farm in Perquimans County.
But somehow, I simply just don’t remember.
Maybe part of the holiday magic is learning to let go of the bad and hold onto the good, or even in learning to see the good in what may have once seemed less-than, just like a brand new pack of underwear in your stocking on Christmas morning.
Read CityView Magazine’s “The Holiday Issue” December 2025 e-edition here.