On Christmas, my siblings and I used to always open our stockings before mom and dad were willing to get out of bed (wrapping gifts for seven kids makes for a late night on Christmas Eve). We’d open the gifts, which we all at one time or another wrecked our bank accounts buying (just me?), on one at a time, going from youngest to oldest. Then we’d eat brunch, usually pancakes and breakfast sides.
This year, things are changing. We won’t all go over to my parents’ house until the day after. We opted for a gift exchange rather than a present for every member of the expanding Figy family. People get older; priorities change.
As far as tradition is concerned, this was a fairly unorthodox year. I already shared my year in photos, talked about getting engaged, spoke my mind about Colorado, discussed graduating from college, emoted about my overseas bromance, plan to write soon about Québec, and plan to write never about the scarring experience of being editor-in-chief of a student newspaper. But all were either firsts or felt that way. Ones of a kind.
I guess that’s sort of a tradition: to keep pushing the limits, keep exploring, and never get bored with life.
As my life, my family, and our traditions continue to grow, shift, adjust, I will remain flexible, excited for what’s ahead. I’ll do my best to write my own traditions, and change will be part of the agreement, with a Force Majeure clause scribbled at the end.