The picture above is of my mom and dad and was taken not long after they were married. Way back then, they had no idea that I would come along, and that they would go on to create so many magical Christmases for me growing up.
When I was little, Christmas felt like it arrived on wings of wonder. I would go to bed on Christmas Eve with the kind of excitement that made sleep nearly impossible. The house felt alive. The tree lights glowed softly in the living room, and the whole place seemed to hum with possibility. I never questioned how the milk and cookies disappeared or how the presents appeared under the tree. I never wondered who wrapped them or who stayed up late making sure everything looked just right. I simply believed.
As I got older, the clues started to show themselves. I noticed the handwriting on the tags. I recognized the wrapping paper from the hall closet. I heard the soft creak of the floorboards long after I was supposed to be asleep. Still, I held on to the magic because it felt too precious to let go.
Then one year, I found myself on the other side of it all. I was the one tiptoeing through the house with a roll of tape in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. I was the one making sure the stockings looked full and the bows were fluffed. I was the one who stayed up late, not because I was waiting for Santa, but because I wanted someone else to feel the same joy I once felt.
That was when it hit me. The magic had never disappeared. It had only changed hands.
Being an adult means realizing that the wonder you felt as a child came from the quiet, unseen work of your parents. They were the ones who made sure the lights were hung, the gifts were hidden, and the traditions stayed alive. They were the ones who carried the weight of making Christmas feel effortless. They were the ones who gave you the gift of believing.
Now, when I think back on those Christmas mornings, I see them differently. I picture my parents sitting on the couch with tired eyes and warm smiles, watching me tear into wrapping paper. I imagine the satisfaction they must have felt, knowing they had created a moment I would remember for the rest of my life. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. That was their joy.
And in a way, that realization feels like its own kind of magic. It’s the moment you understand that love often works behind the scenes. It doesn’t ask for applause. It doesn’t need recognition. It simply shows up, year after year, in the form of traditions and surprises.
These days, when I hang the stockings or wrap a gift late at night, I feel connected to Mom and Dad who did it for me. I feel like I’m carrying forward something they started long ago. And every now and then, when the house is quiet and the tree lights glow softly in the dark, I catch a glimpse of that old childhood wonder. It’s still there, just in a different form.
Growing up means learning the truth behind the magic. But it also means discovering that the magic was real all along. It lived in the hands and hearts of the people who loved you. And now, if you’re lucky, it lives in yours too.
Merry Christmas,
Mickey
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