Cultured Cranberry #2
The first time I felt like I was losing my childhood was that December when Christmas didn't make me happy.
It didn't depress me or anything. I still got plenty of good presents, and had general fun in the process. It just didn't make me quite as ecstatic as it used to.
When I was a kid, Christmas was magical. There were presents of course, but also bright colors and happy songs and delicious food and silly family traditions. There were weeks of anticipation for the big day, reinforced by an endless media parade pushing the holiday (delivered to my tender brain through my hyper-saturated diet of television). I didn't know that it was just every retailer in America trying to stay in the black; it seemed to me like the world was just as excited as I was for that one day.
Then, one year, I remember looking at the tree - in our house, always a real, freshly cut one - and, being startled to find that I didn't feel anything. "It's a pretty tree," I thought, "but it's about the same as last year's and the same as next year's will be." I wanted Christmas presents, of course, but somehow I didn't want them quite as much as I had just a year earlier. I made varied efforts to ameliorate my apathy - I sung carols, I helped bake cookies with red-and-green sprinkles, I thought about all the things I wanted to get - but it was to no avail. Christmas just wasn't as exciting as it used to be.
This distressed me. I remember telling my Dad that I wasn't getting into the "Spirit of Christmas", or something to that effect. His diagnosis was simple. Christmas hadn't changed, I had. I was getting older, and Christmas just wouldn't have the same impact on me anymore. But he also told me how I could still enjoy the holiday in a manner more befitting my more mature outlook: helping my younger sister and brother to have the same sort of experiences I had. If I could enjoy Christmas quite like a young child, then I could start to enjoy it like a parent.
My Dad's advice was right on the money, but that December was still the first time I mourned the loss of a bit of my childhood.
It didn't depress me or anything. I still got plenty of good presents, and had general fun in the process. It just didn't make me quite as ecstatic as it used to.
When I was a kid, Christmas was magical. There were presents of course, but also bright colors and happy songs and delicious food and silly family traditions. There were weeks of anticipation for the big day, reinforced by an endless media parade pushing the holiday (delivered to my tender brain through my hyper-saturated diet of television). I didn't know that it was just every retailer in America trying to stay in the black; it seemed to me like the world was just as excited as I was for that one day.
Then, one year, I remember looking at the tree - in our house, always a real, freshly cut one - and, being startled to find that I didn't feel anything. "It's a pretty tree," I thought, "but it's about the same as last year's and the same as next year's will be." I wanted Christmas presents, of course, but somehow I didn't want them quite as much as I had just a year earlier. I made varied efforts to ameliorate my apathy - I sung carols, I helped bake cookies with red-and-green sprinkles, I thought about all the things I wanted to get - but it was to no avail. Christmas just wasn't as exciting as it used to be.
This distressed me. I remember telling my Dad that I wasn't getting into the "Spirit of Christmas", or something to that effect. His diagnosis was simple. Christmas hadn't changed, I had. I was getting older, and Christmas just wouldn't have the same impact on me anymore. But he also told me how I could still enjoy the holiday in a manner more befitting my more mature outlook: helping my younger sister and brother to have the same sort of experiences I had. If I could enjoy Christmas quite like a young child, then I could start to enjoy it like a parent.
My Dad's advice was right on the money, but that December was still the first time I mourned the loss of a bit of my childhood.
posted by Anonymous at 9:48 PM
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