‘Tis The Season

Tis the Season

By Adrianna Gass

We always start on the far edge of town, the side that presses up against the tiny local airport where the runway lights glow faintly in the dark. It has become a ritual without anyone naming it, the kind of tradition that begins quietly one year and becomes essential by the next. The boys pile into the car with the kind of excitement that fogs the windows before they even buckle in, and suddenly winter feels softer, almost gentle.

This is our season.

Drive around, eat pizza, and look at Christmas lights.

Simple, small, and more meaningful than anything grand.

I turn north first, toward the open fields where the sky stretches like a cold, dark ocean. The boys press their faces to the glass, waiting for that first house brave enough to shine early. There is always a hush in the car during those first minutes, a kind of reverence children give only to things that feel magical. Then one of them whispers, almost breathless, “I see one.”

The whisper always gets me.

It feels like an invitation to wonder.

We sweep up the north streets, the ones that run alongside the airport fence. The town feels suspended in time. Lights blink in the distance. Houses glow warm. And my boys, three little shadows in the backseat, glow right along with them.

Then we loop eight blocks south, weaving through the grid that holds the heart of our town. Some houses are dark. Some are half decorated. And one is always so bright it feels like it is trying to guide the whole world home.

Their faces reflect every color.

Red on their cheeks.

Green on their eyelashes.

White light settling over their smiles.

I memorize these details like they are the last of their kind.

When our loop is done, we head for pizza. The same place every year. The boxes warm our hands through our gloves, and the smell fills the car like a promise. The boys eat with mittened fingers, cheese stretching, sauce smudging their cheeks, giggles climbing over the sound of Christmas music.

I glance at them and feel something shift inside me, the kind of movement that is more emotional than physical. These little moments, these tiny rituals, are the ones that will echo the loudest when I look back on these years. Sometimes motherhood feels like a desperate attempt to freeze time. Nights like this remind me why I try.

We drive again, slower this time, letting the lights wash over us. The heater hums. The car glows with leftover pizza warmth. The outside world sparkles in quiet celebration. And for a moment, everything feels gentle, like winter is trying to be kind.

These drives mean more to me than the boys know.

Maybe they always will.

When I was young, winter felt colder in ways that had nothing to do with weather. Joy arrived quietly, if it arrived at all. Magic felt borrowed. Warmth felt seasonal instead of constant. I decided early that my children would know something different. I wanted to give them traditions that felt safe, predictable, and joyful in a way that touches the heart before the mind.

These nights are my promise to them.

This light.

This warmth.

This time together.

The drive always ends at the same small ice cream shop that stays open even in the coldest months. The boys never question why ice cream in December feels right. To them, winter is incomplete without something cold melting in their hands. We sit in the parking lot with the heater blasting, holding cones that drip faster than they should. Christmas lights shimmer in the rearview mirror like a second sky.

As I watch them lick their cones with sticky determination, I feel that familiar ache. The one that squeezes my chest a little tighter every year. The grief of time.

I know these nights will not last forever.

One day they will grow taller than the door frames.

One day they will sit in the front seat.

One day they will drive themselves.

And the thought is both heartbreaking and holy.

Because the truth is, these rituals are not really about lights or pizza or ice cream.

They are about stitching winter with warmth.

They are about building the kind of memories I never had.

They are about bottling up joy before the years scatter it too far apart.

The boys do not know it yet, but I am storing every detail.

The squeals when they spot a new display.

The way they lean toward the windshield as if trying to absorb the light.

The sticky fingers.

The crumbs.

The soft glow on their cheeks.

The way they sleep deep and safe afterward, as if the whole world loved them back.

These nights remind me that motherhood is made in the smallest moments.

In the glow of a dashboard.

In the warmth of pizza boxes.

In the sparkle of Christmas lights reflected in curious eyes.

In the quiet knowing that even the simplest rituals can become the softest memories.

By the time we head home, the town feels quiet.

The roads feel familiar.

And the boys, half asleep in the back, look like they are wrapped in magic.

I drive slow, memorizing the stillness.

Memorizing them.

Because winter may be cold, but these nights are the warmth I will carry for the rest of my life.

Tis the season.

Not for gifts.

Not for perfection.

But for this.

For the glow.

For the laughter.

For the small moments that make time slow down, even if only for a breath.

Tis the drive around and eat pizza and look at Christmas light season.

And it is the one tradition I hope they never forget.