Being a grown up on Christmas isn’t magical or surprising or thrilling. No, it’s even better. It’s pajamas and hover boards in the living room, brisk walks and pizza for dinner. It’s contentment in its best form, feels like exhaustion in a good way, and it’s the settling of the sea after the furtive tracking of the Christmas storm. It’s family and creating family and making memories and yummy drinks and memories. It’s laughing and choosing joy and wiping tears and remembering love and being loved. Being a grown up on Christmas is being awed by little people who shriek and fuss and giggle and fight. To be reminded of one’s own childhood is quite a gift, me thinks.
Merry, merry. ❤️