Momma In The Mitten

Growing up in our house, Christmas didn’t start on December 1st — it began the night before Thanksgiving. While other families were chopping vegetables or stirring pie filling, our family room glowed with something entirely different: White Christmas.

The moment Bing Crosby’s voice filled the room, something shifted. The night sky outside always seemed a little quieter, as if the world paused just long enough for the season to slip in. That Thanksgiving Eve viewing became our gentle, unspoken cue that the holidays had officially arrived.

And of course, it wasn’t complete without our traditional snacks: a bag of bright orange Okedoki popcorn and a roll of Nestlé Tollhouse chocolate chip cookie dough, eaten straight from the fridge. Absolutely not advised to eat raw — but back then, it felt like the height of holiday indulgence.

My favorite part of the movie, every single year, was the scene where the two lead men sing and dance to Sisters. It never failed to make me laugh. And while the whole film is filled with wonderful songs and charming moments, it’s that perfectly heartwarming ending — everyone gathered, singing White Christmas — that still softens something inside me the moment I think of it. Even now, just hearing those opening notes brings me right back to that familiar room, the glow of the TV, and the comforting sense that Christmas had officially begun.

Getting the Christmas tree was another highlight of the season. We’d bundle up and head to the Christmas tree farm, our breath hanging in the cold air as we crunched through snow to find “the one.” It was never a quick process — not with our family. My parents, my brother, and I wandered through row after row, brushing snow off branches, stepping back to study each tree like we were choosing something monumental.

There was always a debate about height and fullness. Every year, someone fell in love with a tree that was just a little too tall — or, more accurately, way too tall. And every year my dad would insist, “It’ll fit,” right up until we brought it home and he had to trim another foot off the bottom so it wouldn’t scrape the ceiling. Somehow, that became part of the tradition too.

Once the tree was finally in place, the whole house transformed. Even before a single ornament was hung, it filled the air with a fresh, bright scent — pine mixed with a hint of citrus, like winter itself had followed us indoors. Sometimes we decorated that same night; other times we saved it for the next day, stretching the anticipation a little longer.

One of my favorite parts of decorating came from a small tradition with my aunt, who gave me a new ornament every year. Some were sparkly, some handmade, some simply adorable — each one different from the last. I loved finding the perfect place for it on the tree, giving it a home among the branches. I still have those ornaments today, and unwrapping them each year feels like opening tiny time capsules from my childhood — quiet little reminders that these simple traditions shaped so much of what Christmas still means to me.

And then there was our cat, who treated the tree like her personal kingdom. She knocked ornaments down as if testing them for durability, curled up inside the branches to nap, and once climbed nearly to the top of our 10–12 foot tree and got herself stuck. Getting her down was chaotic, but even now it’s one of my fondest holiday memories — a moment of pure childhood hilarity that still makes me smile.

Some of my favorite decorations weren’t fancy at all. In the corner of the family room stood our cardboard fireplace, printed with bright red bricks and filled with faux logs that glowed and crackled when you plugged it in. I used to sit right in front of it, legs crossed, completely captivated by its warm flicker and gentle sound. It didn’t produce any real heat, but somehow it made the whole room feel cozier, as if it brought the whole season to life.

Nearby — or wherever he happened to wander — was our little Rudolph figurine. He stood about a foot tall, just the right size for my brother and me to carry around during imaginative play. His head moved slowly, and his nose glowed with that familiar warm red light that fascinated us year after year. Together, Rudolph and the cardboard fireplace brought a sense of whimsy to the family room, like the holiday spirit had settled into every corner.

Another ritual that marked the passage of December was our handmade Advent calendar. It had small pockets and a tiny fabric mouse who “slept” in each one. Every night, we’d tuck him into the next pocket, gently moving him closer day by day. There were no candies or trinkets — just the simple joy of finding his next cozy spot. That quiet ritual gave December its rhythm, a soft countdown that made each night feel meaningful.

Christmas Eve carried its own unforgettable energy — the kind that made it impossible to sit still. We set out cookies and milk for Santa with great care, arranging everything just right. Then we bundled up and tossed carrots into the yard for the reindeer, imagining them landing softly in the snow as a midnight snack. I always pressed my face against the cold window afterward, scanning the dark sky with a heart full of anticipation.

And then it happened — every single year. Someone would gasp and shout, “Look! There’s Rudolph’s nose! Santa is coming — quick, time to get to bed!” Without hesitation, my brother and I would sprint straight to our rooms, convinced we had only seconds left before Santa touched down on our roof. That blinking red light in the distance was all the evidence we needed.

It wasn’t until adulthood that I realized it was just a radio tower, the same one we never seemed to notice until that one special night. The next morning, the carrots were always gone and the snow around them dotted with what looked like hoof prints. My parents have never admitted anything — and honestly, I love that. Now I know deer wander nearby all the time, but as a child, it felt like absolute proof that Santa’s reindeer had truly been there.

Looking back, none of our traditions were extravagant or elaborate. They were simple moments — a tree chosen too tall, a mouse moved from pocket to pocket, a red light in the distance that set our hearts racing. But those small rituals brought a sense of warmth and wonder to the season that has stayed with me long after childhood ended.

And now, as I celebrate the holidays with my own children, I find myself wanting to pass along that same feeling — not perfection, not grand gestures, but the same gentle traditions that give Christmas its heartbeat.