On the Sixth Day of a Feminine Christmas
Being a grandmother, I now feel Christmas, most keenly through grandmotherhood—which is a love that is both deep and light, rooted and buoyant.
There is a particular joy in seeing the season through a child’s eyes. The thrill of a twinkling light, the seriousness with which a story is listened to, the way a small hand reaches out without thinking. These moments soften the sharp edges of time and remind me that wonder is not lost; it is passed along.
Christmas with a grandchild feels less hurried. I am no longer orchestrating every detail. Instead, I am watching, listening, remembering. I choose warmth over perfection—cookies slightly misshapen, traditions happily repeated, the pleasure of being fully present rather than impressively prepared.
Christmas holds memory tenderly, and grandmotherhood teaches me how to hold the present the same way. To linger. To savor. To recognize that the greatest gifts are not wrapped at all, but arrive from the sidelines—in shared laughter, bedtime stories, the simple blessing of being here, together, in the gentle glow of the season.
Of all the children who now have children of their own
Funny, but comes December, and I remember every Christmas I’ve known. ~ Frank Sinatra
