by Anne Cayer
Traditions make me happy. Really happy. Kid-on-Christmas-morning kind of happy.
I blame my parents entirely for this. Or rather, I thank my parents entirely for this. My childhood was rife with traditions; from Christmas eve’s réveillon to summer’s Darien Lake visits, there was always some grand thing to look forward to.
The former being one of the greatest things any child can experience, in my opinion.
A house filled with family, a huge meal, and a mountain of gifts – but not until after midnight, offering hours of entertainment and playtime while celebrating together. The cousins “played” shuffle board (if you saw it, you’d think the quotation marks were necessary too), the adults prepared dinner, someone corralled the 20-strong group to get to midnight mass, and someone else managed to keep us from peeking under the tree.
In retrospect, it was probably chaos.
But in my mind, it was bliss.
That’s the beauty of great traditions:
Knowing that they’re there and thriving can make you feel a bit better about what happens around you.
As an adult, the holidays are different.
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