My Love/Hate Relationship with the Holidays

Honestly… Christmas and I have this weird thing going on. It’s like we’re in a long-term relationship where I’m still deeply attached, but also slightly irritated every time it rolls around. If you know, you know.

Growing up though? Oh, I loved Christmas. Like, LOVED loved. There was magic in the air and chaos in the house, and somehow it all worked. Christmas Eve was our Super Bowl. We’d roll up to my papa’s house ready for war—musical chairs, the rip game, all of it. And let me tell you, we were always breaking those weak ass white plastic chairs. Always. Every year someone went down. Every year we acted surprised.

And in the middle of all this chaos, we had our own little tradition that literally every kid looked forward to. At some point in the night, all of us kids would be herded into the backyard while the adults went into full Broadway sound-effects mode. They’d be banging on the roof, shaking the railings, stomping around like they were training actual reindeer up there. The most unbelievable sounds ever — like, not even close to real — but we still believed every second of it.

And then “Santa” would show up out of nowhere with this big bag of gifts, jingling loudly, acting like he just flew in from the North Pole. All of us kids would be whispering to each other, “Why is Santa dark? And why does Santa smell like beer?” Meanwhile, it’s my Hawaiian Filipino drunk dad under that suit, trying his absolute best to hold it together. Looking back, it’s one of the funniest and most precious memories — only our family could pull off that kind of Santa magic.

And then the games continued — the rip game, the yelling, the laughing, the whole nine yards. Those nights were honestly some of the best times of my life. And yes — we still do it til today. No one’s learned their lesson.

Christmas morning had its own kind of magic. I’d wake up to the smell of breakfast and cinnamon rolls baking, fried rice on the stove, and vinhadohos sizzling like it was the most normal thing in the world. Me and my sister would be sorting all the gifts into piles, like our own little personal gift-distribution system. We’d sit there waiting for my aunty and cousins to hurry up already so we could rip everything open. When they finally got there, it was over — wrapping paper flying, kids screaming, adults pretending to read the gift tags.

After breakfast, we’d all pile into cars and rush to the theater because watching a movie on Christmas Day was our thing. Then we’d come back home and grams would be in the kitchen prepping dinner like she was running a full restaurant. Some of us would be playing with our toys, some of us watching Christmas movies, some of us knocked out on the couch from the excitement and the late-night chaos from the night before.

But once dinner hit, we’d all be alive again. The men would start drinking, the kids would be outside riding our new bikes under the streetlights, and the whole night just felt… full. Full of life and noise and family and everything that made Christmas feel like Christmas.

Eventually everyone would head home and we’d pass out with all our new toys and clothes scattered all over the living room floor — like an explosion went off. And no one cleaned it that night, let’s be real. That was a tomorrow problem. The only thing that stayed untouched? The Christmas tree. Because traditions are traditions, and our tree was staying up til mid-January whether anyone liked it or not.

And now I’m older and I still love all these memories — the magic, the traditions, the chaos — but I’m also tired. Christmas feels heavier. Busier. Louder. The love is still there, don’t get me wrong. But the hate part? It’s like… whew, nobody told us Christmas as adults was going to be this much work.

Still, every year when the lights go on and the first cinnamon roll goes in the oven… something in me softens. Something in me remembers. And for a moment, I’m that kid again sitting in the backyard, listening to the most ridiculous “reindeer” noises on the roof, waiting for my beer-scented Hawaiian Filipino Santa to jump out with a bag of gifts.

Christmas and I will probably be in this messy relationship forever. And honestly? I’m okay with that.