A Letter on Holiday Preparations Beginning
My Dearest Friend,
The First Notes of the Season
The holidays never sweep in all at once; they arrive gently, on tiptoe. For us, the beginning is marked by a carton of eggnog waiting in the fridge until Black Friday, by music humming through the kitchen, and by the tree rising in its corner while the children scatter boxes of ornaments like treasure. That night, when the house grows quiet, Beloved and I settle in with one of our grown-up Christmas favorites, and for a few tender hours the season feels both brand new and deeply familiar. Anticipation takes root here — before the lists weigh heavy, before the calendar grows crowded — in the joy of beginning.
Anticipation in Little Hands
Bean greets the season with mischief, tugging ornaments from low branches and reminding me which ones must be moved higher. Bun, with a pride all his own, decorates a small tree in his bedroom with handmade crafts, his lights twinkling alongside ours. On the family tree, silver and gold ornaments mingle with fragile teacups collected from duty stations — small fragments of our story strung together in evergreen. Even here, in these earliest days, the children are learning that waiting holds its own kind of wonder.
Preparing with Joy, Guarding the Balance
I confess, I love the making of the season. I love the slow collection of gifts throughout the year, the smell of cookies that only appear in December, the way even soft jazz stations transform into carols that recall the magic of walking through the mall as a teenager. Yet joy so easily tips toward burden. Invitations arrive one after another, the parties multiply, the lists stretch longer than any garland. I have learned to pause. A massage penciled into the calendar, an evening with Beloved once the house is still, the shared question whispered between us: What can stay, and what can slip away? In those pauses, balance returns. I remember that the season’s beauty is not held in perfection, but in presence.
Lessons in Waiting
Under our tree, presents gather slowly through the weeks of Advent. That gentle rhythm of waiting has always been a quiet teacher — reminding me that joy does not need to be rushed, that wonder grows in the slow unfurling. Each package becomes a promise, a lesson in patience and anticipation. There has been chaos — Bun, still a toddler, unwrapping every gift one year while his father was away — and sweetness — Bean crawling for the first time simply to reach the lights. These small moments remind me that anticipation is not just endured, but savored.
The Lesson
The heart of the season rests not in flawless execution, but in the balance between joy and rest. Anticipation itself is a gift — teaching us to wait, to hope, to wonder. And yet anticipation must be held gently, or it becomes a burden. Our children learn as much from the moments we step back as from the ones where we lean in. It is a dance between effort and enchantment, and I hope my children see both. Because someday, when the mystery fades, they will not only remember who shaped the magic, but long to join in creating it for others.
The glow of the holidays is not lit by seamless schedules or perfect parties, but by laughter under twinkling lights and the memory of being together.
To the Spouse Who Prepares Too Hard
Perhaps you, too, are holding lists longer than your energy, convinced that if you plan enough, control enough, give enough, you can keep chaos at bay. My friend, the season will arrive regardless. Your family will remember the warmth of the lights, the sound of laughter, the smell of cookies drifting from the oven. Most of all, they will remember you — not the endless lists, but the way you were present with them. You do not need perfect to give your family joy. You only need to be there.
