Christmas at home

Christmas at our house.  

Like a story, or a song.  Like a memory that you feel like you have, but you don't really know where it came from.  

And then you realize that it is a memory.  But in your memory you are the child with the glowing Christmas tree that seems twenty feet tall.  And the warm current buns in the morning, with the sausages that you never eat any other time of year.   The heater runs, gift wrap strewn about the living room.  Mom and dad are smiling and drinking coffee in a sleepy smiling sort of way.   

Legos.  Dolls.  A new set of pencils.   A walk in the cold Christmas air after all the fuss has died down.   Many new books to read.   

I remember so much love, and many sweaters.      

In this way, Christmas at our house-- in our very own house, under our very own roof for the first time ever-- was very much like returning to something from my childhood.  But now I am the mother, and I am watching my girls, ages 1.5 and 6.5 point out endlessly which ornament is the most magnificent.  
We are celebrating our home, and everything that it means to be the-four-of-us-together in our home. A space where daily ordinary life takes place, but can turn into a sort of magical holiday hut when we simply focus on each other, and make cookies.  
It was wonderful.  It was perfect.
And now we are into January, and Christmas is over and cleaned up.   And I am already looking forward to next year.