Advent calendars and the Problem of Patiently Waiting:

It started with Legos. 

That’s a lie.  It started with Playmobil, given to me by a dear friend.  It was used, but that didn’t matter.  The parts went back into the adorable, numbered boxes.  The kids were small enough that we worried they could swallow the pieces or stuff them in their noses or ears or whatever orifice was handy.  Preferably your sister’s. 

We were addicted, opening the boxes daily.  Soon after, we discovered the Lego versions.  I heard somewhere that they quickly sold out.  Scarcity making them more desirable, I had to have them.  Every year we bought 2, one for each kid.   Now we had at least 3 dioramas on the dining room table every December. I started to give a different Lego one to my older niece and nephew, grabbing them from Costco in November.  It became part of their Christmas gifts (sucks to have December birthdays, guys). 

Then, Bonne Mamman.  The cute little jellies and jams in their tiny jars.  A new one every day; miraculous, never seen in the grocery store flavor combinations.  These were destined for our fledgling foodie.  She would use half a single serving jar on her toast each day, and the remnants started to take over the holiday fridge.  Touch the open or new ones at your peril.  There’s a reason that this one is often listed in top tens for advent calendars. 

In 2020, it became my wife’s thing to order different ones for each person in the family, near and far.  We had so little ritual to celebrate, to plan on—yet every day we could anticipate the calendar.  Our gatherings and traditions might be smashed, but we could have a tiny chocolate every day.  Or a new tea. Or a tiny bottle of wine for our Texas family.   

She spread the joy to our nieces and nephews via Amazon.   Trinkets and tchotchkes and candy.  What’s too small for a 3-year-old?  What’s acceptable to a family who eats mostly organic, and not likely chocolate for breakfast? 

A reusable mindfulness one surfaced.  How very pandemic.  This made us briefly ponder the amount of waste generated by a daily bit of plastic wrap and the tiny jelly jars--which should have a use, but didn’t really.  It’s a lovely idea.  Take a breath, consider the season, your surroundings.  The problem was and is that it’s far too wordy.  I want a nugget of zen, a deep breath, and on with my day.  I read three of them so far this year.  Back to the chocolates. 

At some point, the Trader Joe’s dog one appeared from a friend.  All the pets wanted a bit of those.  Now the dog needed one every year too. And the cats.  

Things went a bit off the rails this year: 

• Three of us live here.  We have 7 advent calendars, not counting the Lego one that I bought, stashed upstairs, and forgot about until December 10.  Also not counting the one that was supposed to go to college with our girl to share with her roommate.  No matter that the students headed home mid-month.  She declined.  

• I cannot believe that this is the first year we have had the Walker shortbreads.  Sadly, this calendar is gone, because we all ate ahead.  Today is empty?  I’ll eat December 22nd.  Stocking stuffers noted. 

• One set of nieces and nephews were too old for a daily dose of Lego.  Last year’s were abandoned and never assembled after day 3.  My sister finally tossed them or gave them away in March.  The first week of December, my nephew asked her where his calendar was.  Too old for Lego, he now wanted a daily treat.  Oops.  

• We may have forgotten completely to send Legos to the younger set.  Favorite aunts status in jeopardy. Fortunately for us, we are two of their three aunts, and the only aunts married to each other. This increases the likelihood that we’ll make the top pair of the list again sometime. 

• As little girls, our kids sometimes had to wait to open the day’s treat or Lego figure until one of us was home from working overnight, or off call. They were not always on board with this plan.  Patience was a problem.

Of course, none of these things has anything to do with the real waiting of Advent. Stories of personal waiting are the theme shared in our church during Advent this year. They can be joyful, uncomfortable, some of both. Just like patience. 

One advent calendar from Sunday School was about the real waiting of Advent. A bible verse or passage about the Christmas story for each day in December. I wish that I could say that we read these together with the same regularity we assembled Lego figures. I could blame the night and weekend work schedules, but the reality is that one of us was always here to do the reading. We often took the easy road in the hustle of dinner/bath/book/bedtime.  

When our daughters were old enough to be trusted around fire, we routinely lit candles in the Advent wreath.  If the church deemed them worthy of acolyting, surely they could light a match at home.  It is a lost skill for Gen Z. We bought a lighter.   

There were several years of trying to pass their fingers through the flames, with varying degrees of success.  And a few ice cubes on burns.   Nobody lost any eyebrows.   We take this as a win.  We gave up trying to read the Christmas story verse by verse. Our teenagers were confirmed and rebelled against the church as many teens do. We’re patiently waiting that out. 

Although the kids no longer fight over who gets to blow out the candles, we still light them.  We don’t always have family dinner at the table due to schedules and attitudes.  The remodel of our kitchen island facilitates eating and conversing there.   Will we light them next December, when it’s just two of us for most meals—or only me, if my wife is working?  We wait in this, the next Advent of our lives as our girls become women. 

But I want my own shortbread calendar next year.  Or maybe, just a box.