Change is in the (pine-scented) air

This year, we’re doing something different for the holidays. We’re passing the Christmas Eve torch to the Princess. This is a big deal. Long ago, when McIrish and I were newlyweds and lived in a tiny apartment with a view of the Manhattan skyline (and a family of cockroaches living under the fridge), we invited my mom and sister to come for Christmas Eve dinner. We had been married all of ten days, and we were eager to showcase our teeny home (and Joe, our cat, who drooled with joy when petted).

Since then, we’ve always hosted a Christmas Eve dinner party with between ten and twenty guests. We have to move furniture and I iron for days because starched napkins matter, people! I polish the silver. I spend an entire day on a showstopper dessert that would make Paul Hollywood shake my hand with vigor and awe. The Princess and I decorate the table, and we use our very special Night Before Christmas china, which remains the best present McIrish ever got me. Candles light the walkway, and I make special cocktails (obviously), and McIrish shucks oysters, grills brussels sprouts and is in his element as Host Supreme.

But we’re grandparents now, and I firmly believe in the edict that Christmas is where the children are. The Peeper and the Butterfly are usually fast asleep by 7 p.m. Three years ago, my daughter, Firefighter Mike and the baby slept over, because the Princess wanted her child to wake up on his first Christmas in her childhood home. The next year, they brought him, tucked him into the crib and then successfully sneaked him into his car seat and drove home after dinner. But last year, Firefighter Mike was working, the Butterfly was on the scene, and the Princess made the tough decision to leave early to put her babies to bed. Frankly, it just wasn’t the same without her. (She is an elf raised by humans.)

This year, she asked if she could host Christmas Eve, the better to be able to get the kids to bed and wait for Santa. We agreed. This too is a new tradition, as most of my family holds onto their holidays in a skeletal death grip. We wanted to be amenable and accommodating, not the type to say, “Christmas Eve is our holiday.” Well, I wanted to be all that. McIrish agreed in theory, then was shocked to learn he wouldn’t be cooking his famed seafood lasagna on December 24th.

“We’re hosting dinner the next day,” I said. “You’ll survive. Christmas is where the children are.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.”

“Don’t be like my mother,” I said, words that have jolted us into changing our behavior many times over the decades. Besides, my beloved aunt used to host Christmas Day dinner, and since she died, there’s been a vortex on December 25th. We will now try to fill it with the same fun and coziness she provided.

This is the second Christmas where Dearest Son will not be here (the first being when he was nineteen days old and in the neonatal unit at Yale-New Haven Hospital). Now, my son is with his unit overseas, and alas, he will not be surprising us with a knock on the door. To be honest, Christmas never has brought out his best side, since he liked to position himself as honored guest, rather than helpful son. Happily, homesickness and staff sergeants have changed that, and he now longs to be home. I have promised him Christmas in March, whereupon McIrish can make his seafood lasagna once more. We’ll even get another tree.

I can’t wait to kiss my grandchildren goodnight on the most exciting night of the year. I know my daughter and son-in-law will host a wonderful gathering. And though it will be quiet when we get back home, and Christmas morning will lack the happy chaos of years past, I know the magic of Christmas will still be shining in our little house.