A December Baby’s Window of Wonder
I’ve always believed those of us born in late December belong to a
special club, one with equal parts
glitter, wrapping paper, and mild confusion. For those who share this curious
birthday window with me, I send my warmest wishes. We December babies know what
it means to grow up with one foot in Christmas and the other in our own personal
celebration, even if, in those early years, the line between the two was a
little… negotiable.
I wasn’t a Christmas baby exactly, but close enough that my early
birthdays came wrapped in the scent of pine, the sound of jingling bells, and
the unspoken family debate: Do we give him a Christmas present, a birthday
present… or try to pass one gift off as both? As a child, I didn’t know
these conversations were happening behind the scenes. I just knew that times
were tight, kindness was abundant, and somehow, I always had something to
unwrap, whether it was under the tree or
beside my cake.
And truly, I never felt deprived. I was too busy living inside the magic
of the season. The house smelled like cinnamon, oranges, and woodsmoke. My
mother hummed as she cooked. Snow dusted the windowpanes like powdered sugar.
The lights on the tree cast warm glows across the living room that made every
evening feel like a storybook. When you’re small, you don’t judge the size of
the gifts, you just enjoy the moment.
By the time I was older, and our circumstances were brighter, suddenly I
was receiving two gifts, one for Christmas and one for my birthday, and I felt like royalty. I still remember the
thrill of seeing both a Christmas stocking and a wrapped birthday box
sitting proudly on the table. I thought, Well, this is it. I’ve made it.
In hindsight, it might have been the first moment I understood the idea of
abundance, how it sometimes arrives
slowly, like the gradual lengthening of days after the winter solstice.
And now, all these years later, I find myself reflecting on this curious
stretch of days between December 25th and January 1st. This gentle, quiet
pocket of time that feels like a soft landing after the sparkle, but before the
countdown. It’s a doorway of sorts, a
week where we let ourselves breathe, digest both turkey and emotions, loosen
our shoulders, and listen to the faint hum of our own thoughts again.
This is the time when the house is a little quieter. The wrapping paper
has finally been corralled into the recycling bin. The cookies are still within
reach (dangerously so). The television seems permanently tuned to some marathon
of old holiday movies. The lights still twinkle, not with urgency now, but with a kind of
gentle afterglow.
There’s a coziness that settles in. A slow exhale.
It’s the perfect moment for reflection.
Not the heavy, resolution-driven reflection that demands lists, charts,
and promises we know we’ll break by mid-January. But the softer kind, the kind that allows us to remember the year
as it was. To honour its joys, its challenges, its surprises, and its quiet
moments of grace.
For seniors especially, this time between Christmas and New Year carries
a different rhythm. We’ve lived enough life to understand that time is
precious, but also generous. We know that gratitude isn’t something you buy, it’s something you notice. And there is so
much to notice in these days:
the warmth of a blanket,
the sweetness of an unexpected phone call,
the echo of children’s laughter still hanging in the air,
the scent of pine lingering a little longer than expected.
And yes, there’s humour too. The kind that bubbles up when we find the
ornament we meant to hang still sitting in the hallway, or we discover the TV
remote wrapped in a dish towel for reasons that made sense at the time. Or when
we catch ourselves eating leftover stuffing at 9 a.m. and think, Well, it’s
still the holidays…
These in-between days remind us that joy doesn’t need ceremony.
Sometimes it’s just a quiet afternoon with a cup of tea that smells faintly of
cloves. Sometimes it’s a memory that rises like a warm breeze from years past.
Sometimes it’s the knowledge that we’ve made it through another year, no small feat, and still have room for gratitude.
Hope grows here, too. Hope for gentler days. Hope for laughter that
comes easily. Hope for continued health, for connection, for purpose, for
moments that surprise us with their sweetness.
For those of us who were born near Christmas, these days feel like a
second holiday in their own right, a
personal festival of gratitude and new beginnings. But even for those who
weren’t, the week between Christmas and New Year invites everyone into the same
warm, reflective glow.
So as December winds down, let’s savour these gentle days. Let’s
appreciate the quiet, the memories, the leftover shortbread, and the soft
promise of a fresh year waiting patiently just beyond the horizon.
Between the sparkle and the countdown, we find ourselves.
And that, at any age, is a beautiful gift.
