Frankly Speaking

It’s January 5, and I’m happy.

That’s despite the fact that this week, I realized if neither one of us figures out how to clean the oven soon, it will likely combust just like the last oven we owned. And despite the fact that people tend to look at my burgeoning (okay, maybe bursting is more appropriate) bump and say things like “Wow, you’re not due for three more months?”And despite the mystery scratch we found right across the kitchen table tonight, my third favourite item in the house. And despite the fact that my feet really hurt, and it’s cold out, and I’m pretty sure if I don’t do some laundry tonight we are both going to have to start recycling socks tomorrow.

Yup. All that – and about 14 other things aside – I am still happy. Deeply happy. Happy in that delicious kind of way where you feel all warm and good and hungry (although I may just be hungry period, not sure if it’s directly linked to the happiness factor).

I’m happy because it’s January 5, and I got what I wanted most for Christmas: a few hours in the grocery store with my dad, and a late night chat with my mom. I’m happy because my husband and I cocooned ourselves on the couch and refused to get dressed on Friday, leaving the quiet luxury of doing nothing only to refill the chocolate bowl or get more chips and dip – something we never allow ourselves to do. I’m happy because it’s going to be a big year, and I rang it in hosting good people in my own house, people I love and who make my world better. I’m happy because our friends had a baby this week, and that there is a new little person out there in the world. I’m happy because I have a sneaking suspicion that at 24 and almost (Good Lord!) 28,  my sister and I actually like each other. A lot. I’m happy because there is nothing under the sink in Katie’s bathroom save a bag of curlers, in case once she gets here, she decides that curlers are her thing. And I’m happy it’s frozen pizza night.

Yes, it’s snowing and slushy and the people of Toronto are causing rush hour havoc. Yes, it’s bitterly cold and I had to fight a guy for a seat on public transit this morning. Yes, there are a whole lot of things – valid things – worth worrying about tonight, from the proroguing of parliament to the full body scanners at the airport to the poor state of our downstairs powder room (Molly Maids, please find me soon…).

But instead, I’m just sitting here feeling happy. What can I say, except maybe: my cup runneth over.

My earliest memories of Christmas shopping are good ones. I was small, the Toys R Us cart was big, and the task my parents presented was simple: Fill this with toys – anything in this aisle that looks like fun!

The items we bought were never for me. They weren’t for my sister, my cousins or the kids down the street. They were destined for families who were counting on us to lend Santa a hand.

We got it. Even then, as small as we were. Whether it was a good year, and the cart was full, or whether it was a tighter year, and we were more selective in our choosing – the message was clear. Christmas is never really about “us”. It’s about helping someone else feel special, and loved.

That’s who my parents are. That’s the reason our Christmas dinner table has often had a few “extras” seated around it. From newly divorced mums and dads, trying to get through the  holiday on their own, to young people whose families were far away, families from around the corner that we hardly knew and basically anyone else who mentioned not having a dinner to attend. Between the passing of the stuffing and the carving of the turkey and the singing of the carols, the message was always clear here, too.

As an adult, I’m doubly lucky. I’ve found a  man who understands all I ever really want is something that reminded him of me. And like me, his parents taught him, too, that the first presents are for those who need them most, and the dining room table always boasts an open invitation to anyone and everyone.

There are certain inalienable truths about Christmas. Malls will get crazy. Schedules can be exhausting. James Taylor’s Christmas CD should never be listened to alone under any circumstances. But beyond the craziness and the business and the inordinately nostalgic songs, comes the magic.

Throughout the year – but especially at Christmas – each of us has the power to create a little magic for someone else. A toy for a child who wouldn’t otherwise receive one. A seat at t the table for someone who wouldn’t otherwise have  one. A firm belief in our ability to help one another, no matter what, because at the end of the day, Christmas isn’t about us at all. It’s about what you can do for someone else.

This is our last Christmas as a family of two. But I already know the first gift I’ll give Katie next Christmas. The tradition of giving to others first – at Christmastime, and other times, too. Not for the credit or the pat on the back. But because that’s what this holiday is really for.