I’m knee-deep in Christmas right now. Honestly, it’s everywhere—presents piled on the bed, wrapping paper strewn across the floor, scissors and tape scattered like confetti. A friend came over the other night, stepped into my bedroom, paused, and asked, “What is going on in here?” I just laughed. Yes, it’s a total holiday mess—but it’s one I’ve happily created for myself. Among the chaos, I recently asked my kids what their favorite part of Christmas morning is. “Stockings,” they said, without hesitation. That—and the cinnamon rolls I purposely mess up every year. Why? Because the first time I tried making them, they were a disaster. You’re supposed to make them with real pudding, but I used instant. They were hard as rocks. Yet, my kids ate them anyway—because no one wants to tick off their mom on the biggest day of the year, right?
It’s funny how messing things up can sometimes become the most treasured memories. When I was a little girl, there are moments from Christmas that have stayed with me forever. I remember the way our house filled with the scent of a fresh-cut Christmas tree as my parents dragged it in. I remember the excitement of pulling out the stockings, my mom explaining the story behind each ornament, carefully unpacking the Nativity scene, and setting up her little collection of Dickens houses in the living room. I remember staying up for midnight Mass in my best outfit, feeling like even in a warm west coast December, we were tucked away in a snowy lodge somewhere. It was magical, the way she made it all feel so special. And I remember listening to The Carpenters’ Christmas album on the radio, convinced it was my mom singing, because to my little ears, she sounded that perfect. My mom was—and still is—my superstar.
Amid all the holiday bustle, I remember school crafts, too. Every year, we made something to give to our parents. One that stands out the most was in second grade, around 1979. Our teacher had us make tiny wreaths out of mini pretzels. Sounds simple, right? But for little hands, gluing pretzels into a perfect circle, threading a ribbon, tying a neat bow—it took effort. And patience. We worked hard, wrapped them carefully in tissue, and tucked them into our backpacks, proud of what we’d made.
Then came the walk home. We ran with friends, skipped puddles, tossed our backpacks at the boys we liked—typical 8-year-old chaos. By the time I got home, dumped my backpack in the foyer, and looked around at our Christmas-decorated house, I had completely forgotten about my little pretzel wreath. That is, until dinner. Suddenly, I remembered. I bolted to retrieve it, my heart racing with excitement. I pulled my backpack back to the table, rummaged through books, homework, half-eaten sandwiches—and there it was, wrapped in tissue.
But something was wrong. My heart sank. The wreath wasn’t a wreath anymore. It was flat. Crumbly. Nothing but a pile of pretzel dust. My jaw dropped, tears welled up, and I ran from the table, headfirst onto my bed, refusing to come out. My mom tried to console me, petting my hair, singing softly—but nothing could fix my broken little heart. That night, I cried myself to sleep.
Morning came, and I woke to the smell of sizzling bacon and faint Christmas carols drifting from the kitchen. My eyes were puffy, my hair damp from tears. I still felt like a failure, like my disaster would ruin Christmas for everyone. Shuffling toward the tree, I cautiously peeked at the presents beneath. And then…there it was. My wreath. Fully intact. My eyes grew wide. My voice shook. I ran to my mom in the kitchen, tugging at her pants. “Mom! Mom! You’re never going to believe this!” I led her to the tree. She gasped. “Well, look at that,” she said. “It’s Christmas magic.” Of course it was.
To this day, my mom never reveals the truth. I’m 47 now, and every December 24th, she tells anyone who will listen that some kind of magic put that wreath back together. She will never admit that after I cried myself to sleep, she quietly went out, bought pretzels and glue, and recreated the ornament at the dining room table, carefully threading the ribbon and tying the bow. She will never tell you how tired she was, how much else she had to do, yet she put everything aside to mend not just a wreath, but a little girl’s heart. She will let us believe in magic forever.
And here’s the truth I want every momma to remember: I know how tired you are. I know Christmas feels endless—shopping, wrapping, baking, decorating, planning surprises, juggling budgets, surviving on a few hours of sleep. And still, you make magic happen. Sometimes literally. Sometimes in quiet ways, fixing broken wreaths, mending little hearts, making the impossible feel real. You are magic. Don’t ever forget it.
