Separate Pieces, Folded Together: Christmas in Charleston
On Christmas Eve, Lizzie and I packed the Highlander until the back was a Tetris grid of potential joy, leaving just enough room for the two of us to breathe.
We made the drive through Downtown Charleston and over the Ravenel Bridge into Mount Pleasant. If you’ve never driven over that bridge in the morning light, it feels a bit like ascending into the bright, hazy promise of the day and then descending back into the messy, beautiful reality of the Lowcountry. Onward to Ms. Momma Carole’s house we went.
I am forty-three years old, and I have come to believe that the "running jumping hug" is the single greatest human invention. Lolo and Wyatt, my two favorite tiny humans, greeted us with a velocity that suggested they hadn't yet learned about the laws of physics or the fragility of the adult lumbar spine. I don't know at what age people decide they are too dignified for running jumping hugs, but I’m hoping for my sake, and theirs, that we are still decades away from that particular tragedy.
Once the Highlander was finally relieved of its cargo, the kids helped us shuttle the treasures to the tree. Then, we settled into that peculiar, wonderful Christmas Eve stasis. We played video games, colored on iPads, and let Christmas movies flicker in the background, the kind of cozy, digital domesticity that defines our modern lives. Dinner was a masterclass in pragmatic hospitality. Because Lolo and Wyatt are currently navigating the specific, narrow culinary cartography of picky eaters, Ms. Carole opted for simplicity: pigs in a blanket and a charcuterie assortment. It was glorious. We ended the meal with the traditional food groups of champions: gummy worms and Skittles.
When the movies ended and the treats were gone, the house shifted into "Operation: Stealth Ninja." Carole got the kids to bed, and I retreated to the kitchen to load the dishwasher, a meditative act of service that feels like a prayer if you do it right. As I finished, Carole began the marathon of wrapping the final gifts. We fell into a rhythm: she would wrap, and I would play the part of the suburban commando, creeping up the stairs to drop them under the tree before sneaking back down. We repeated this mission until roughly 2:00 AM.
But the most important part of the night didn't involve wrapping paper. Carole and I sat at the kitchen table and talked until 4:00 AM ish. We talked about the wild year we’d survived, the house hunt in Summerville, the milestones, and the quiet ways we’ve supported each other. There is a specific kind of vulnerability that only exists in a kitchen at four in the morning, fueled by exhaustion and shared history. We knew the sun would be up soon, but some conversations are worth more than sleep.
We managed exactly one hour and twenty-three minutes of rest. My Apple watch was despondent.
It is a profound irony of the human condition that while getting children up for school is a battle of attrition, getting them up on Christmas morning is a feat of supernatural energy. They were beating down the doors with the sun. We raced upstairs, and the chaos… the beautiful, loud, paper-shredding chaos… erupted.
The morning was a blur of vibrant reds and pure, unadulterated joy. The "loot" was a testament to their interests. There were building gifts of Minecraft Legos, a perfect fit for a family that spends a fair amount of time in digital worlds, and 3D pens for creating things that didn't exist an hour prior. There were comforts, Elizabeth opened Harry Potter themed cookbooks, while Carole received a mug with a quote that caused a fit of laughter so genuine it became my favorite photo of the set. Wyatt received a weighted black bear he named "Molasses," and Lolo finally secured the giant plush otter that had been her white whale ever since the Coastal Carolina Fair.
The highlight for Wyatt was a new remote-controlled drone. Watching him fly it was a lesson in humility. He operated that little machine with a precision that I simply could not replicate. I tried. I failed. I am apparently much better at taking photos of things that fly than I am at making them fly myself.
As the afternoon settled into a quiet hum of new toys and half-eaten treats, I took a nap. It was the kind of sleep you only get when you know the people you love are safe and happy in the next room. But as I dozed there later, I couldn't help but think about Christmas Eve of 1996.
That was a Wednesday that changed the geometry of my life. My Mom had a brain aneurysm that day, and for nearly thirty years, a long, dark shadow has been cast over every December. For a long time, Christmas wasn't a celebration; it was a memorial. It was a day to be survived.
But these years felt different. I realized that the present I value most doesn't come in a box. We aren't a "typical" family, whatever that means. We are more like the gifts under the tree: separate pieces folded together, held in place with bits of tape and shared memory. When everything comes together, we have this little thing with a treasure inside.
After years of Christmas being something that dredged up the heavy and the dark, it is a strange and beautiful thing to find myself in February, already looking forward to doing it all again. We are messy, and we are tired, and we are definitely out of gummy worms, but we are together. And in the end, that is the only thing that really matters.