Christmas means something different to me each year. And each year, I can only hope that what it is to me become deeper and more transcendental than what it had been.
At 5 years old, it meant waking up all excited to the gifts that Santa brought in secret the night before.
At 7, we were taught that Christmas is really about God and his son getting born in love into the world.
Then again, at 10, it meant not waking up to the puppy I prayed for but somehow feeling all fuzzy all day, anyway.
At 12, it meant getting up early and bathing giddily to wear new clothes my mom and I picked out and bought a month before.
At 16, it meant a short cease-fire from a year-long cold war with my father, with a temporary restoration to my mobile phone privileges to match.
At 20, it meant pleading with my dad so I’d be allowed to wear slippers to church – as a break from having to wear corporate attire in school the whole year.
At 22, it meant being ultimately grateful for being home – finally – after being away from the people who made home, “home”.
At 24, it simply meant wishing in my heart of hearts, that I would be able to make my parents proud.
And finally, at 26, it means being genuinely happy because love is love, and in knowing that I am loved for who I am.
See, every year, it’s different. But although that may be so, one thing remains the same: each Christmas is merrier than the last, and every year we celebrate it with extra love for my mom who was also born same day (and, of course, my dad who was instructed to also celebrate his birthday the same day).
I love you, Mommy. Happy 55th birthday 💖