Where are you, Christmas?

Christmas this year is kind of a first, in some ways.  It's the third I'll have spent with my husband, but the first in which the pressure has really been on my shoulders to 'make Christmas happen.'  For our first Christmas, we were living a mere twenty minutes from my in-laws' and about an hour from my parents' home, so while I did my best to come up with pajamas for the two of us and a little something to place under the tree for my husband, our frequent visits to both families made up for the atmosphere that our little apartment lacked.  On top of that, we were both attending school and were working, so our workplaces and the campus also contributed to the yuletide ambiance.

This time last year, I was about thirty-eight weeks pregnant, was working full-time and had just finished a grueling semester of hybrid schooling (part online, part face-to-face).  Ben was working full-time too, so in the midst of our business, although we were constantly looking for Christmas stories to read and gifts to wrap, and although we even took the time to thread thousands of pieces of popcorn onto a length of fishing line, Christmas was largely overshadowed by the fast-approaching arrival of our first child.

This year, all of that is different.  We live too far away to borrow Christmas from our families.  I am not working outside of my home, so I haven't enjoyed any of the seasonal rituals kept by most or many employers.  And finally, I am awaiting no enormous and palpably life-changing event to take my mind off of Christmas itself.  I found myself asking, as we raised our wiry tree, 'why don't I feel Christmas-y yet?'  I was singing right along with Cindy Lou Who.

I found the feeling I was looking for, of all places, in Walmart.  The store was crowded beyond belief and, unable to find that item that I just had to have (I know, I know), I was just about to have a meltdown.  I've since decided that, along with store greeters, Walmart should invest in store psychologists for just such episodes.  I can't be the only one, right?  Luckily, I had something better.  As I was weaving my way down the crowded baking aisle, no doubt looking murderous, my husband found me.  He listened sympathetically to my woes, put an arm around me and took the crying girl (because who wouldn't be indignant at being told that they mustn't stand, facing backward in the seat of a grocery cart?  Yes, she was wearing the seat belt) from my cart.

Somewhere between then and the manic check-out lines, I felt a little change of heart, or maybe the change of seasons finally registered with my heart.  Leaving the store, and still feeling somewhat like a train wreck, I realized that it now felt like Christmastime.  Yes, of course, Christmas doesn't come from a store - yes, Christmas is indeed a little bit more.  Doctor Seuss and his Hollywood followers taught all of us well.  Nevertheless, it's one thing to accept mentally and another thing to internalize it, and I guess it's something I have to do a little bit each year.  I've come to the half-solid conclusion that the bustling store did the trick because it provided the atmosphere, complete with cheap decorations and cheesy holiday tunes that I would never allow on my Pandora Christmas station, that I was lacking.

What is the message I am sending here?  That Christmas will never be complete without commercialism?  No.  That's not my intention, anyway.  The gaudy ornaments and overflowing toy aisles don't make Christmas what it is, but I wonder if the throngs of people all flocking to that crazy supermarket for the same purpose as I was - in preparation for a common and well-loved celebration - do.  Maybe the mayhem of thousands of people all seeking to bring their families together for Christmas brought it to life for me.