E Ellis Allen (girlonstilts.com)

When I was four or five years old, I would sneak into my parents’ bedroom—before the sun was up. Before, the blue glow of Saturday morning cartoons signaled the great awakening of my other siblings (seven at the time, with an eighth somewhere on the horizon).

I would tiptoe into the blackness of the Master bedroom—slip under the bed quilt and weight of thunderous snores and wiggle my way between my sleeping parents up to the top of the bed.

Having been cursed with poor circulation from birth, I would dole out my plague, pressing toe-shaped ice cubes against my dad’s calves to wake him up. The recourse was never ever severe.

Instead of swearing over the jolt of abrupt cold sizzling against tented body heat, my dad would reach under the covers, snatch my feet in his fists, drag them topside, and pretend to eat them.

Then, the tickling would begin.

When I was laughed out, my dad would teach me how to sling my pointer finger against my thumb to make magic. His was always louder, more powerful. His sounded like a set of grasshopper wings slapping together. Mine sounded like a single wing clap—it sounded like nothing…not at first.

The more I practiced, the more mine started to sound like they were supposed to—the connection between two individual entities—click, click, click!

The lessons didn’t end there, either.

For most of my childhood, my father was, to say it mildly, stressed to the point of nearly seizing—eight kids, remember?

Every Christmas season, I seize up, too. I run around worried—have I bought exactly what everyone was hoping for? Have I spent enough money on presents? Have I put up enough twinkling lights on the house? Or is the garland on my fireplace big enough, pretty enough, magical enough? What about the Christmas tree?

My calendar is chock-full of pleasantries, parties to go to, and merriment to be had with family and friends, but I don’t see that. All I see is an uptick in obligation and responsibility.

I get depressed. Where’s the holiday spirit in that?

I’ve been on this road to a Holiday Heart attack for my entire adult life, and I’m really not sure why?

Maybe I’m addicted to the adrenaline of having to do Herculean fetes, to decorate, to cater, and attend the billionth X-mas party and shop until I drop? Yes, I’m there and participating, but I’m hardly ever having fun.

This year, I want things to be different. This year, I want to enjoy the season, to really appreciate moments worth having, and not focus so hard on the items I bring to it.

Looking back through my life, I’m not grateful for the TV I watched early morning Saturday cartoons on (I mean, I am, but not really).

What makes me grateful are the moments of connection, those stolen seconds that stand out in my mind and bring a smile to my lips even forty-four years later.

I’m thinking about what will help me through the darkness of obligation and the weight of thunderous responsibility. I have concluded that all the time-consuming preparation leading up to the events doesn’t matter.

The things that really count are relatively small—teeny-tiny, possibly minute moments shared that add up the most.

It’s driving around frozen streets to see Christmas lights, my children in the backseat, snacking on Little Caesar’s breadsticks, oohing, and ahhing at the spectacular sights.

It’s a pickup game of UNO. It’s sitting on the couch and holding hands with your loved one. It’s a genuine connection with one another—click, click, click!

I’m grateful that my dad, so many years ago, in a household of chaos, decided to spend a few minutes with me, one on one, and taught me how to make my fingers sing. 

This Christmas season, I yearn for the simplicity of joy—the kind that emanates from those tiny profound moments with loved ones.

And this is what I wish for you, too. May your holiday season be filled with warmth, laughter, and moments worth cherishing.