Christmas Night, Quiet at Last

This post is dedicated to Aunt Phyl. My #1 fan <3.

The house is finally quiet.

The lights on the Christmas tree are still glowing—soft, twinkling, almost humming in the silence. A few ornaments are slightly crooked, evidence of small hands that insisted on helping. Wrapping paper has been mostly cleared, though a stray bow clings to the rug and a gift tag is tucked beneath the couch, forgotten in the rush of the morning. The scent of chaos lingers in the air, mixed with sugar cookies and something warm from dinner earlier. And there I am—sitting on the floor or the edge of the couch, wine glass in hand, finally exhaling.

Christmas night is not the loud, sparkly moment we see in movies. It’s not the chaos of Christmas morning or the anticipation of Christmas Eve. It’s something quieter. Deeper. More honest.

This is the moment after.

All day long, I poured myself out. I stayed up late, and then woke up early—before the kids, before the sun—just to make sure everything was right. The gifts were placed perfectly, the stockings fluffed, the coffee ready. I played the role of magic-maker, memory-creator, schedule-keeper, cookie maker, photographer, and peace negotiator. I reminded everyone to say thank you. I made sure to have everyone open a present one at a time so I could “see what Santa brought you”. I refilled drinks. I opened packages. I found batteries….so many batteries. I wiped sticky fingers. I smiled through the noise, the mess, the exhaustion, and the joy all tangled together.

And now, here I sit.

The kids are asleep—finally—tucked into beds with new pajamas and full hearts. Their excitement has faded into dreams, probably replaying the best parts of the day. Their laughter still echoes in my head. Their “best day ever” declarations still linger. And while my body is tired in a way only moms understand, my heart feels heavy and full all at once.

I take a sip of wine. It’s not rushed. It’s not stolen in between tasks. It’s mine.

The tree lights reflect off the glass, casting tiny sparkles around the room. For a moment, I just sit and stare. I think about how fast this day came and went—how fast this season always goes. The planning takes weeks. The anticipation builds for months. And then, in one whirlwind day, it’s over.

I think about the moments I almost missed: the way my child’s eyes lit up when they recognized their handwriting on a gift tag, the spontaneous hug that came out of nowhere, the laughter that erupted over a silly toy. I think about the moments I wish I had handled better—the impatience, the raised voice, the stress I carried on my shoulders like it was part of the outfit.

Motherhood on Christmas is beautiful, but it’s also heavy. We hold the magic, but we also hold the pressure. We want everything to be perfect, knowing deep down that perfection was never the point. What our kids will remember isn’t the matching wrapping paper or the perfectly timed meal—it’s how the house felt. How loved they were. How safe.

And tonight, sitting by the tree, I let myself feel it all.

The gratitude. For this life, messy and loud and exhausting as it is. For these kids who changed me forever. For another Christmas captured not in photos, but in moments I’ll carry with me long after the decorations are packed away.

The nostalgia sneaks in, too. I see my children growing up in the glow of those lights, year after year. I wonder how many more Christmases will look like this—how many more nights I’ll sit here, wine in hand, listening to the quiet after the storm. I know the tree will someday stand in a different house, with different traditions, different rhythms. And that thought both breaks and fills my heart.

So I sit a little longer.

I let the quiet settle. I let the wine warm me. I let myself feel proud—for showing up, for creating a day filled with love, even when it took everything I had. I remind myself that it’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to be emotional. It’s okay to need this moment.

Because Christmas night isn’t about what’s left undone or what didn’t go perfectly. It’s about this pause—this breath—this reminder that the magic wasn’t in the gifts or the plans.

It was in the love.

And as I finally stand to turn off the tree lights, I carry that truth with me, knowing that tomorrow will bring messes and routines and real life again. But tonight? Tonight, I rest. 🍷✨

So…Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good glass of wine ❤️