My daughter Brontë is three years old now, just old enough to start getting super excited about Christmas. I love to build anticipation for the holidays too.
It’s fun. Also, I figure it helps give her a better sense of time, the passing of the seasons and the yearly rituals that accompany them.
She is already enjoying advent calendars. Every day she finds the right number on her calendar and eats the chocolate behind it. I’m hoping this helps her learn numbers, understand how calendars work (how long it is until Christmas), and practice moderation.
The advent calendar lesson took two attempts, unfortunately, since Brontë woke up early one morning and tore out all the chocolate at once. Since she also demolished baby sister Bridget’s calendar, we decided to give her one more chance this year, making sure to store the calendars higher from now on.
So last weekend, we finally got around to getting a Christmas tree to decorate. Brontë was ecstatic, having waited for this moment for weeks. She slapped some reindeer horns, because she loves getting into the spirit of things, and ran out the front door squealing.
Driving to a local tree farm, the kids tore out of the car and raced around the trees. Brontë strolled around for a few minutes before pointing at a tree:
“This one,” she shouted. “This is our tree!”
“Do you want to look around for a little while and see if you like another tree better?” I asked her.
“No,” she replied, throwing her arms out to her sides, “This one is perfect.”
She clearly doesn’t have trouble making decisions.
We took our perfect tree home and decorated it with lights. Brontë passed out ornament after ornament, taking time to marvel at each before selecting the “perfect” branch to showcase them.
Brontë picked out a My Little Pony theme whereas Bridget wanted a Minion stocking. After we put them up, Bridget kept pointing at her stocking, shouting “Minion!” in her adorable, one-and-a-half-year-old voice.
This kids keep staring at the lit-up tree in the evening, mesmerized by their own private holiday wonderlands.
“That’s our tree,” Brontë says, beaming, “That’s our Christmas tree.”