Home Alone
“But Mom, I don’t want you to be alone on Christmas Day,” my son pleads.
It is Christmas Eve and we are surrounded by wrapping paper, bows tossed
hither and yon, and two small children high on sugar, arenaline and Christmas
joy. The house smells like prime rib, mashed potatoes and chocolate.
He desperately wants me to come to his house in the morning for Christmas Day.
For a moment it sounds lovely, but then I remember Christmas Past.
Like Ebenezer, I fade back in time to last year’s temper tantrums and squabbles.
And that was just the adults.
One relative tossed me a Christmas card still encased in its cellophane wrapper.
“Open it,” she demanded. “I didn’t have time to sign it. Open it!” She shoved it
under my nose. I took the card and turned my attention elsewhere. This
Christmas, I did open the cellophane wrapper, signed it and mailed it back to her.
As I enjoyed a delightful Christmas feast, the same relative interrupted the topic
of conversation by thrusting her finger in my face. I think sticking things in
people’s faces must be her passion in life.
“And I cut myself assembling that stupid toy. I had to have four stitches!” Sure
enough, a raw wound displaying four stitches was waving dangerously close to
my mouth. I briefly debated adding another wound to that finger.
Then there is her husband, who has a habit of coming into a room, saying
nothing as he stands for long periods of time, and then turning and walking away.
I worry that he might be a zombie and they’ve just cleaned him up for the
holidays.
And this year’s added attraction will be the appearance of my ex-husband and
his new wife. Need I say more?
“Please, Mom,” my son pleads again. I ruminate about Christmas Past and then
envision my Christmas Future. Playing Christmas carols, sitting by the fire, and
taking my time cleaning up the dishes and the wrapping paper from Christmas
Eve.
I assure my son that I will be just fine and send them home with presents and
food and all my love.
I cannot wait for Christmas Day!