Nothing really turned out the way I’d planned. My oven-baked sweet potato fries in the special sauce turned out gray for some reason; my Aunt Emma’s new puppy relieved himself to the tune of a half gallon on my kitchen floor; and my youngest son wasn’t here on Christmas for the first time in his or my life.
Yet, as I sit here in the midst of the detritus of Christmas 2013, Perry Como is singing “Let it Snow” in the background. I feel that old excitement that always occurs at Christmastime and takes me clear into the New Year.
There’s that sacred feeling on Christmas Eve just before drifting away, with visions of sugar plums dancing in your head (although in all my life no one ever gave me a sugar plum). There’s reading the Christmas story again, the real one…from Luke 2.
There’s the feint feeling of nostalgia for Christmases past when grandparents and parents were still here and our children were still children. How can one day mean so much and yet get away from us so fast? We always want our Christmases to be perfect, but we don’t live in a perfect world and sometimes we just have to dig deep into the pile of torn wrappings and frayed ribbon and accept what is. We tell ourselves that tomorrow we will be more compassionate, loving and joyful.
I forgot to mention that my son, Braddock, gave me the latest technologically superior coffee maker ever produced. It doesn’t “drip” coffee but “showers” it and looks super cool in my kitchen with a carafe that I can proudly take to the table. I’ve been testing it out and may not sleep for a couple of days. He also gave me a home security system so I can’t sneak out without the whole neighborhood knowing.
But at my age, who cares. Ring a ding ding.