There’s a very specific sound that fills our living room on Christmas morning. It’s a combination of paper tearing, gasps of surprise, and the occasional “Whoa!” that echoes like a shout of victory from a mountaintop made of wrapping paper. It’s the sound of kids being kids—specifically, my kids—ripping through presents like they’re in some sort of sugar-fueled gift demolition derby.

And I love it. Every time.

Whether it’s a gift from me and Edith or from Santa himself (who, let’s be clear, still runs the most efficient gift delivery operation on the planet), watching my children light up as they open their presents brings something back to life in me. Something wide-eyed. Something I thought I might’ve lost somewhere between high school and my first tax return.

But here’s the thing. I now live in this odd Christmas paradox. On one hand, I get swept up in the joy of seeing my kids get exactly what they hoped for. On the other hand, I’m also the dad walking around mumbling, “You know, Christmas isn’t about getting things. It’s about giving.”

It’s a line I believe with my whole heart. I say it earnestly. I even try to pass it off while handing them socks and pointing out how useful they are.

It’s not always an easy sell.

Christmas Past and Present
When I was a kid, Christmas morning felt like a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting—if Rockwell ever painted a living room covered in toy packaging and siblings fighting over who got to play the new Nintendo game first. I remember the excitement, the wonder, the early-morning dash to the tree before my parents had so much as sipped coffee.

We didn’t just like Christmas in our house—we stretched it like taffy. The tree went up as early as socially acceptable (basically right after the last bite of Thanksgiving pie) and came down sometime around January 10th. We squeezed every drop of magic out of the season and kept the lights twinkling so long the neighbors probably assumed we’d become decorative lighting enthusiasts.

It was warm, cozy chaos. And it left its mark.

Now, as a dad, I find myself doing the exact same thing—dragging the tree out the moment the turkey leftovers are sealed up, and packing it away sometime in January when the pine needles start rebelling.

Why? Because I want to hang on to the magic for as long as I can.

Magic in the Middle
The truth is, Christmas isn’t so much about a single day as it is about a feeling. It’s about light in the dark. Joy in the cold. Giving when it’s easier to keep. And if you’ve got kids, you know that feeling changes every year.

When they’re little, it’s easy—the wonder, the cookies for Santa, the reindeer snacks on the lawn. The magic is real and right there in front of you.

As they get older, the holiday starts to grow up with them. The surprises change. The wish lists shift. But that magic doesn’t go away—it just moves. It shifts from receiving to giving. From looking at the world with wonder, to wanting to bring a little wonder to someone else.

That’s the part I didn’t expect. That trying to create Christmas for your kids would bring it back to life for you, too.

Making Light
This time of year, especially up here in the North Country, the sun clocks out early. The days are short, the nights are long, and it’s easy to feel like everything is slowing down and tucking in for the winter. But then come the lights—on houses, in windows, on trees—and suddenly, everything starts to glow a little warmer.

That’s what Christmas is. It’s us trying to make as much light as we can in the darkest time of the year.

And it’s not just the bulbs or the candles—it’s the giving. It’s in the laughter, the music, the shared meals, and the small, thoughtful moments when someone feels remembered and loved.

And yes, it’s also in seeing your kids’ faces light up when they open the one thing they hoped for more than anything.

Letting It Stretch
So yes, we stretch Christmas in our house. The tree goes up Thanksgiving night and stays up until somewhere around January 10th, which is, as far as I can tell, the outer limit of what’s socially permissible before someone files a complaint.

And I will defend that decision with the same passion I reserve for arguing whether Iron Man 3 qualifies as a Christmas movie (which it clearly does—just look at the snow and the heartfelt redemption arc).

Because if we can stretch the season just a little longer… if we can keep the glow alive for just a few more chilly nights… if we can carry the spirit of giving just a bit beyond the gift wrap… then I think we’ve done something right.

Maybe Christmas isn’t about perfectly timed traditions or nailing the perfect gift. Maybe it’s just about making light—and letting it shine a little longer than it has to.

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