Pajama Party
and how genuinely terrible I am at not giving gifts early.
In the past couple of years, I’ve realized more and more that I might be a terrible Christmas gift giver. No, not in the traditional sense. I feel the quality of the presents I’m gifting is above average. I have a notebook where I keep up with ideas for those.
What makes me a terrible gift-giver is that I am incapable of waiting. As we drank our coffee on the couch this morning, I gave Tucker his third Christmas gift— delightful pajama pajamas.
This comes after I gifted him his first Christmas present a week ago— a Paris Review sweatshirt he wanted. We share a bank account, and I knew he’d seen the transaction from the Paris Review. Regardless, excuse or not, I would have given it to him. The gifts I hold for a person sneak into every other thought I have. I want to tell them so badly, and I hold out for about a week until I cave entirely. Always the same -- “Do you want a Christmas present right now?”
I get so excited. And this morning, I felt a little guilty as I pulled the pajamas out of their plastic bag. As I rounded the corner, the gift unwrapped and hidden behind my back, we both started belly laughing. I gave him the pajamas, and we both tried them on, and the guilt melted. Standing in our living room, drinking coffee in matching Christmas pajamas, we both felt it — it felt like Christmas morning magic, early but not a moment too soon.
I’ve decided that I will no longer feel bad about this personality trait. You might get your Christmas gifts anytime in November or December (and sometimes January!), and I will not apologize. The magic is mine to make; I will make it whenever I want.
Finding joy in the holidays can get harder and harder as we age, which is on my mind a lot this year. I will not begrudge myself an ounce of happiness this Christmas, and I hope you won’t either. Let’s get through the holidays the best we can and invite in as much joy as possible.
That’s it for this week. Find joy where you can and catch it like a wily 9 year old, bumbling through a backyard trying to catch snowflakes on your tongue.
This week Tucker and I found ourselves backstage at The Ryman. For the folks who didn’t grow up surrounded by Bluegrass music, or Country music, or lore of Nashville, The Ryman is the original Grand Ol’ Opry. Every time we get to walk through those doors in any capacity it feels special — but backstage feels like something else entirely. We stayed until we couldn’t anymore and as we walked out, across the stage itself, I felt my 12 year old self, watching the Opry on PBS with her grandma, smile.
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