The Angel That Carried My Childhood into Theirs…

Today I traded my mug filled with pumpkin spice tea (yes — I still drink it by the gallons) for a cup of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream. I’m wrapped in a sherpa blanket on my twinkle-lit front porch, now dressed in full Christmas cheer — skinny trees, bright red bows, buffalo plaid ribbons tucked between poinsettias.

The snow is falling in that slow, deliberate way that feels like something out of a painting — soft, steady, and impossibly quiet. Flakes drift gently through the glow of the string lights and land on the porch railings like powdered sugar. Every so often, a breeze stirs them up again, sending little swirls into the air before they settle back down. I sit, still, listening — to nothing and everything. Just the hush of winter, the warmth of my mug, and the way December seems to press pause on the world for a moment.

Later in the morning, I stepped into something I’ve been dreaming of for years.

When my husband and I decided to move back to New York, it was more than a relocation — it was a return. A homecoming. And when we started talking about building our life here, I told him: “When we find the right home, it has to have a hot tub.” Not as a splurge — but as a space. A space where I could sit beneath the falling snow, surrounded by cold and warmth at the same time. A quiet dream that lived in the back of my mind for years.

And today, for the first time in so long, I got to live it.

The snow kept falling, soft and steady, as I sank into the water. Steam curled up into the crisp air. I exhaled. And from that spot — warm, still, content — I watched my husband and our children in the yard. He pulled them on a sled, laughing like one of the kids himself. Snowballs flew. Giggles rang out. The dogs barked. And every so often, they’d look over at me with bright eyes and wave their mittened hands through the snow.

It was everything I imagined — and more. A moment that once lived only in my head, now unfolding perfectly in front of me. One of those quiet, holy mornings that reminds you: this is it. This is the dream.

It was the kind of morning that reminds me why I love this time of year so much.

Later, I found myself back on the porch, warmed from the inside out — not just from the hot chocolate or the soak, but from the joy of that whole snowy morning.

The house behind me glows warmly. The tree sits proudly in its place — not tucked in a corner, but right where it demands to be seen — the centerpiece of the season. And my dogs (both of my sweet shadows) are curled up inside, waiting for me to come in with marshmallow breath and cold hands.

And this year, we have a new addition to the chaos and the magic — Tuk Tuk, our little black-and-white kitten full of love, cuddles, and enough energy to power the entire North Pole. Tuk Tuk has decided that the Christmas tree is her personal playground and climbs the inside of it like she pays rent. We’ve already had several “code red: kitten in the branches” moments, but honestly? It just makes me laugh. It’s the sort of imperfect little chaos that makes a home feel alive during the holidays.

And if you’re wondering about her name — it’s a sweet little nod to my son. For the longest time, he couldn’t say the word cookie, so he’d ask for a “tuk tuk” instead. Kids grow out of those adorable little mispronunciations far too quickly… so naming our kitten Tuk Tuk felt like a way to keep that tiny piece of his toddlerhood forever. A little sound of innocence now curled beneath our Christmas tree.

Now that we’ve entered the Elf on the Shelf chapter of parenting, everything feels even more magical. Our elf — Star, named by my son — has become part of our nightly routine. And each night, my husband and I hide her together, whispering ideas, laughing at our own creativity, and imagining how excited the kids will be in the morning.

But beneath the fun, there’s something deeper stirring.

It’s in these moments that I realize the greatest gift I can give my children isn’t wrapped in paper — it’s teaching them how to feel joy and how to give it. We talk often in December about those who may not have what we do — families in need, children without warm homes or gifts waiting under a tree. And so we gather toys to donate, write little notes to tuck into care packages, and pray for strangers by name. These aren’t grand gestures — but they’re seeds. Tiny acts that I hope take root in their hearts, teaching them that Christmas is about giving more than getting. About seeing others. About holding space for kindness.

But decorating this year — the doing, the staying busy — has held deeper meaning. Keeping my hands moving softens the tender places in my heart. Because no matter how bright the lights are, the holidays always bring the ache of missing certain people.

For me, that person is my father.

I do everything I can to keep him close — through stories, through traditions, through the little rituals he once created. I was blessed with a magical childhood, and now, as a mother, I want to build that same magic for my children.

And part of that magic — the kind that doesn’t come in a box — was built around togetherness. I remember Christmas Eve at my grandparents' house so vividly… the air thick with delicious smells from the kitchen, cousins bundled up in mismatched pajamas, my aunts and uncles squeezed around the table, laughter spilling from every room. The house would be glowing — not just from lights or candles, but from the people in it. Those nights felt infinite. Safe. Whole. I didn’t know then how sacred that kind of gathering was. But I know now.

Decorating has always been something I love — seeing a space, imagining its potential, turning it into something warm and meaningful. But the piece that means the most this year isn’t on a shelf or the hutch at all — it’s in my kitchen, resting quietly on a small table where I pass it several times a day.

The angel.

Not just any angel — my angel.

The one my grandmother Anne displayed every Christmas.

The one I thought was lost forever.

Many years ago, I helped my grandmother prepare her house to be sold. For years, we spent Christmas Eve there — the familiar decorations, the smells of her cooking, the warmth that only her home could hold. Her home was warm simply because she was in it. When she decided to sell the house with most of her belongings, including her holiday décor, it felt like losing pieces of my childhood.

I thought the angel was gone for good.

But recently, while helping my aunt with a tag sale, she opened a worn cardboard box and said, “Val, you might want these. They were your grandmother’s.”

And there she was.

My angel.

Still perfect. Still glowing. Still waiting.

It felt like the universe gently placed a piece of my childhood back in my hands.

Now she sits in my kitchen, watching over my children just as she once watched over me. That full-circle moment… it touches a place deep within me. And I hope one day my children will bring her into their own homes, continuing the story she’s been part of for generations.

And I can’t talk about Christmas without talking about my mother — the quiet architect of so much of my holiday magic.

My mother went through such great lengths to create Christmas magic for my siblings and me. Looking back now, I can see every detail clearly — the late nights, the early mornings, the careful planning, the stretched budgets, the laughter, the traditions. And as teenagers, we didn’t always make it easy for her. But she still made Christmas enchantingly beautiful.

She created magic in the smallest details — the way she decorated, the way she wrapped gifts with intention, the warmth she infused into every corner of the house. She had these playful little quirks that only family would understand — like her classic, out-of-nowhere “Have you ever seen a Lassie?” moment while driving. Just hearing those words brings me right back. My cousins would know exactly what that means. A tiny, silly memory — but the kind that stays with you your whole life.

She never told us what Christmas meant — she showed us. Through the way she gave, not just to us, but to neighbors, friends, people she barely knew. A plate of cookies here, a thoughtful card there. Quiet, steady giving. It’s that spirit I hope to pass down now — showing my children that the heart of Christmas is wide open and generous.

My mother is humble to her core. She doesn’t recognize the magnitude of who she is or how profoundly she shaped us. But I know. And everyone who loves her knows.

Thank you, Mom, for creating the kind of Christmas magic that lives inside me still. I can’t wait for the day when you’re sitting across from me — cocoa in hand, wrapped in a blanket, a grandchild on each of our laps — soaking in the magic you once created for us.

And because Christmas isn’t only tender and nostalgic — sometimes, it’s ridiculous and loud and full of belly laughs — there’s Christmas Vacation.

Not just a movie, but a full-blown tradition with legendary status in our family. And not just on one side — on both. Somehow, no matter where we celebrated, that movie was playing. It became part of the rhythm of the season — the background music to our wrapping, our baking, our laughing. The lines were quoted year-round. Certain scenes were practically burned into our family culture.

There was this collective reverence for the hilarity of it all — for Clark Griswold’s meltdown, Cousin Eddie’s chaos, and everything in between. It was the kind of movie that united us — cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents — all laughing at the same ridiculous moments, year after year. It wasn’t Christmas until Christmas Vacation had been watched at least once — usually more.

My cousin Chris had the honor of reenacting scenes every year… and hilariously, it was the one and ONLY time he was allowed to say curse words. Watching him shout Clark Griswold’s lines was pure comedy gold.

And on my dad’s side, I can still hear his belly laugh when Cousin Eddie pulled up with that rusty RV and Snots the dog. I haven’t watched it yet with my kids, but when I do, I know exactly which moment will get me. Because I’ll hear him again.

And then… there is our Christmas Eve ritual, one of the most cherished parts of the season for my husband and me.

Decorating has always been something we love — but Christmas Eve decorating is something else entirely. Once the kids fall asleep, the house becomes still — that rare kind of quiet you only get once a year. The tree glows. The air feels soft. Time slows down.

We come downstairs together with that shared look — the one that says, “This is our favorite part.”

We take a few playful bites of the cookies left out for Santa, let the dogs nibble on the carrots “the reindeer” left behind, and smile at the magic these small details bring. Then the real work begins — arranging the wrapped presents under the tree, fluffing bows, straightening ribbons, creating a room that feels like something out of a storybook.

There’s something holy about those late-night hours —
the soft glow of the lights,
the rustle of paper,
the warmth of the house,
the hum of quiet music,
and the joy of building magic together, hand in hand.

And the best part?
Knowing the next time we step into that room; it will be with two wildly excited children pulling us down the stairs into the wonder of Christmas morning.

In those moments, standing beside the man I love, creating magic for the children we love… we feel overwhelmingly blessed. To give them a home filled with warmth, wonder, and memories that will last far beyond childhood.

And above all else, I hope they grow up knowing that the best parts of Christmas aren’t wrapped in shiny paper. They’re found in laughter shared, in time given, in hands held out to others. I hope they carry those truths — tucked between traditions and ornaments — for the rest of their lives.

As the season unfolds, I hold onto the small things — the snowflakes, the lights, Star the elf, Tuk Tuk inside the tree, the smell of baking, nighttime prayers about gratitude, and small hands selecting toys to donate.

The holidays will always bring both laughter and tears.

But they also bring magic.
Hope.
Memory.
And love that never leaves — it just changes shape.

This year — like every year — I’ll choose joy.
I’ll choose nostalgia.
I’ll choose magic.
I’ll choose love — for where I came from, for where my children are going, and for the sacred spaces in between.

Because some decorations are just decorations.
But some — like a certain angel — carry entire lifetimes in their tiny, glowing hands.