By a guy who still gets misty-eyed at the sight of tinsel
Ask anyone what their favorite time of year is, and you’ll hear all sorts of questionable choices. Some will say summer — which is basically four months of being basted like a rotisserie chicken. Others will praise spring, a season mostly dedicated to pollen trying to assassinate you. And then there are the autumn romantics, who claim to love watching leaves fall while quietly ignoring the fact that they’ll be raking until their spine begs for mercy.
But the correct answer — the only answer — is December.
December is when the world collectively agrees to stop sulking and behave like a cheerful Hallmark card. And I, for one, lean right into it. Because the moment the calendar flips to that festive month, something in me switches on: nostalgia firing up like an old Christmas light, flickering but determined.
I’m suddenly a kid again — hair sticking out like I’d slept in a hedge, wearing clothes that my mother swore “fit fine” despite all evidence to the contrary. I remember the annual ritual with my mom: pulling the Christmas tree out of its hiding place, always somewhere impossibly dark, as if we were retrieving contraband. We’d untangle lights that looked like they’d fought a war, hang decorations older than civilization, and fill the house with Christmas carols drifting gently through the air.
I remember my childhood friends — the same ones you’d swear you’d know forever, before adulthood scattered everyone like loose tinsel. We practiced carols as if we were preparing for some grand international tour. Really, we were preparing to go door-to-door, singing bravely and slightly off-key in hopes of cookies or spare change. Magical times, even when the notes cracked and someone forgot the lyrics.
Christmas mornings were pure gold. Waking up early, tiptoeing while absolutely not being quiet, the warm glow of lights, the anticipation thick enough to trip over. Christmas Mass followed — that rare hour where even the twitchiest child could somehow sit still, because the whole world felt gentler, slower, touched by something sacred.
And then there was the food. Good heavens, the food. The kind of meal that made you forget the existence of restraint. Heaps of it. All of it. Magnificent.
And of course… it’s when I remember when my own kids were young. Those Christmas stories I used to tell them — tales stitched together from imagination and tradition, best read with dramatic flair. The toy-shopping missions, sneaking around stores trying to find the one thing that would make their eyes light up like they’d swallowed a star. Those cold nights when we all huddled together, snow dusting the windows, the smell of home-cooked meals drifting through the house like a warm memory.
I remember those morning school runs, too — the world outside wrapped in frost or snow, every breath visible, the car heater struggling for its life. Those were the days. A beautiful, chaotic chapter sealed in winter.
December is the month where all of this comes together — childhood memories, my kids’ laughter, the music, the magic, the stories, the food, the lights. It’s the season built for children, for letting them be kids, for teaching them the real message of the season: kindness, wonder, gratitude, and the joy of giving.
So what’s my favorite time of year? December, without a doubt.
Because it’s the month that makes the world feel a little softer, a little brighter, and wonderfully full of life.
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A Kings 
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