Today I get to scratch something off my "To Do" list which has been haunting me for over two months.  I've sent a lot of thank you notes to the people who expressed their sympathies on the death of my mother just before Thanksgiving, but I could not bring myself to write to the nurses and aides at the nursing home where she spent her last two years.  Today I not only wrote the notes, I delivered them in person at lunchtime with a plant which had a "Thank You" balloon attached.  Yes, I cried, and so did some of them.  Yes, Super Snoop still drives me insane and always will.  But I feel so much better.  There are still half a dozen notes to write, but none of them is as emotionally dangerous as these were.  I'll finish them before bringing dinner to my mother-in-law tonight, and then I shall put the funeral home's white bag into the attic, with cards, and spiritual bouquets and obituaries and get on with the business of healing.

Winter isn't all bad.  The snow covers a multitude of scars and ugliness.  One learns to appreciate temperatures in the double digits. And to brighten the short and dreary days are the upcoming Super Bowl and Academy Awards. 

I know next to nothing about football, and if the Patriots aren't involved I care slightly less.  My friends Jeff and Mary invite my family (whoever is around) to their beautiful home every year for a party to watch the game.  Usually the women are upstairs chatting.  Usually I'm downstairs in the Man Cave, sitting front and center on the couch, beer in hand, and cheering on...the commercials.  It's the only time of the year that the advertising agencies really try, and sometimes the results are worth watching.  When the children were smaller Himself and I used to make our snacks during the playing time and scurry back to the screen for the ads.  They are still my favorite part of the festivities.

Then there is the mad scramble to see as many Best Picture Nominees as possible.  I've seen a few this year.  So far I've seen "Lincoln", "Beasts of the Southern Wild" and yesterday "Silver Linings Playbook".  "Django Unchained" and "Zero Dark Thirty" both strike me as too violent for me to watch.  I am an Orthodox Wuss.  I want to see "Argo" and "Life of Pi".  I'm undecided about "Amour" since it seems to echo the story of my life and I've had enough of senior care for right now, thank you.  "Silver Linings Playbook" was a pleasant surprise.  I didn't know what to expect going in, which made it more fun.  One of my favorite scenes was when the son, at three o'clock in the morning, feels compelled to throw Ernest Hemingway through a window, so disgusted is he with the writing.  Son Number One will jump up and cheer when he sees that part.  He loathes "Papa Hemingway" with a white heat.  At nine o'clock last night I texted him about the scene.  At one-forty-five this morning he texted back.  I was ready to throw HIM through a window.  Still, it makes for a good story.  And in the dead of January we all need a good story to tell.

When I have to deal with finances, I immediately revert to being around seven years old.  Brought up in a long line of "Your father will kill me if he sees this bill!", it was really hard to get a solid role-model of how to cope with this whole savings thing.  Mom (God rest her soul) had a white cashmere sweater with a mink collar, which I remember well.  Also a red velvet winter coat lined in white satin, a gold lame trench coat, and a mink stole which she had yearned for for years and then seldom wore (I mean...where would you?).  Dad never wanted to be "bothered" buying a house, so I grew up in a cold water flat on the third floor of one of Boston's "three-deckers" until we graduated to an apartment with hardwood floors and (gasp!) radiators!  Life was good.  No one told me there was more.

I would periodically empty my savings when I was young and charming, and would blow it on a trip to England or France.  I would pay the minimum on my charge cards until the balance started to scare me a little and then I'd pay more.  For a while.  Then rather later than you might expect, I married the world's most sensible man.  He paid all of his bills every month.  In full.  And he expected me to do the same.  So I did.  He had savings.  Not rich (I married him for his good looks, after all) but not starving either.  Things were swell, as they used to say in the 1930's movies.  Then we had kids.  And then they went to college.

The college system in this country is only "out-obscened" by the medical system.  The prices of both are completely ridiculous.  So we cut back here, and we cut back there, and we sacrifice quite a bit for our offspring who are, it must be said, brilliant, with brilliant futures (I hope), but for the first time in over two decades of marriage, life is non-picnic-like.  This is hard work, figuring out how much to give and how much to make them work for.  We will get through, I'm sure, and they will go out and save the world, but it's a damn good thing the timing corresponds with my zen period.  I was already trying to get down to a rice bowl, a saffron robe, and a prayer mat.

Now Christmas is officially over.  Yesterday we dropped off Son Number One back at school and the house echoes with the emptiness.  I can always tell which room the boys are in, whether they are making noise or not, and they are both "off my radar" now, which is sad, but fine, too.  I'm glad they are off doing their thing.  It also moves the seasons ahead just a notch, and as I sit looking out the window at what turns out to be (thankfully) only a dusting of snow, I'm ready for that.

Learning my new purpose in life is complicated.  I don't know how to turn off (or down) the Mommy Function.  We have raised two wonderful, resourceful young men and it is very exciting to watch them as they set off in the world to find themselves.  The state of the universe is a concern, of course, what with global warming, the economy, and the seemingly endless rise of hatred, but I have faith that they will both make a dent in that.  Now it's time for me to find how to make my own dent.  The little job at the mall isn't going to do it.  There is a job out there somewhere which will use my writing, my public speaking, my singing, my something that I love doing, and actually pay enough to help with tuition.  I'm sure of it.  A new adventure at 60.  Hooray for me!

January has turned mean.  After days of mild temperatures and confused daffodils poking their leaves above the ground to test the sun, winter has revealed itself in its brittle, nasty splendor.  The howling wind finds its way into every crack of every window frame, whistling like a soprano ghost, and shakes the storm door like a drunk trying to force his way inside.  And it's OK.  January is just being January.  This, too, is part of what living in New England is like.  The good news is that I finally remembered (yesterday) to turn off the water to the outside hose and open the spigot.  The bad news is that those bulbs never did find their way into the ground to surprise me in March.

In a way, the image of naked black lace trees against the gray sky is beautiful in its starkness.  There's a bone-bare essence to the scene that means business.  The frippery of Christmas has been stripped away (except for my porch lights, of course) and the business of moving forward has begun.  While the weather turns colder, the days are also getting longer and I know what comes next.  We are inching towards the spring, towards kinder days and softer colors, towards yellow and purple crocuses and an invitation to remain outdoors, feel the breeze and breathe the air.
Meanwhile I wonder why birds don't freeze solid, and how they manage to clutch telephone wires with their tiny feet as they face that unsympathetic wind.  I worry about the homeless, who, with their refusal to accept help, either because of an ill-advised issue of dignity, or an unwillingness to part with the weapons which make them feel safe, are no better off than the birds.

I have no right to complain as I sit in my sheltered house, with a scarf around my neck and a thick hooded sweater to take off the chill, still it's hard to be optimistic on a day as mean as this one.  But as I said, I know what comes next.

There was a dental appointment this morning which was A) expensive and B) not terribly comfortable, and I'm not sure which aspect of that reduced me to tears, but there we were.  I suspect it really started when the dentist asked how my holidays were and I actually had to respond.  Here was someone else who didn't know that my mother had passed away during Thanksgiving week, and I dug that pain out again to look at it and it more or less exploded on me.  I thought I was further along in the healing process, but I guess I was wrong again.

I started my little job at the mall this week, and almost every day someone would comment on my beautiful scarves, all of which I snitched from Mom's apartment while I was in the process of cleaning it out.  Or they liked the necklace and matching bracelet which she had worn to my wedding.  And, of course, I've been wearing my pink yeti bathrobe which was the last present she had actually picked out for me.  The signs of mourning have been everywhere, but I've been too slow to read them.  I'm trying to give myself an impossible hug, and it's just not working.

The antidote (if there is one, which I absolutely doubt) is to get busy.  The dishwasher is humming, the dryer is clicking away, and I'm about to start vacuuming.  It's important to make a visible difference so I can preserve the illusion of functionality.  The truth is I'm feeling small and sad and winter lonely.  Maybe I'll write a poem today.  Or finish the thank you notes from Mother's funeral, which have been haunting my "to do" list for the past two months because I haven't been able to face them.  And somewhere this afternoon I am hoping for a walk, a nap, and a cup of cocoa in no particular order.

Once again I am the talk of the neighborhood.  January 16 and my Christmas lights are still up on my front porch.  Admittedly, they were never in competition with Disney to begin with.  It's just three connected strands of LED lights (multicolored) intertwined with fake greenery and tied with a couple of small silver bows.  I like my Christmas lights gaudy in color, but requiring minimum effort on my part.

They go on automatically at sunset, which, I am happy to note, is coming later and later, and they turn off automatically about five hours later.  That means that this year, unlike the last three years, I found the magic "gazinta" (as in: "This gazinta that") and it works.  I don't have to run down to the cellar and throw the circuit breaker every night to shut them off.  Everyone else on the street has put Christmas away until next year.  Uh uh.  Not I.  At first the neighbors thought I kept them up until "Little Christmas" on January 6.  The truth is, I keep them up because they are cheerful.  I hate the dark of winter.  The cold doesn't bother me nearly as much, but the darkness makes me sad and uneasy.  If the nights are going to be so disgustingly long, why NOT keep Christmas lights up to literally lighten the mood?

People have become accustomed to my being the last one on the block to put lights up (not wanting to upstage a certain first born's birthday on December 18) and the last to take them down.  So up they stay until Lent, which arrives on February 13 this year.  And then I'll give in, because by then the Red Sox will be in spring training (for all the good it does them), and the hope of Spring will be gaining strength with the elongation of each daylight hour, and I won't need an extra talisman to which to cling.  I can stop embarrassing my kids until the first crocus pokes its little yellow head up in the front yard.  Because that's another tradition of mine.  I dance.  No.  Really.

I have heard that when you have a child, you have decided to go through the rest of your life with your heart on the outside of your body.  The vulnerability to which we subject ourselves by loving someone so intensely is hardly disputable, but I never realized until Sunday how painful it could be.  Poor Son Number Two was just trying to get back to school in time for second semester of freshman year, when weather and bad airline connections stranded him alone in Philadelphia overnight without his luggage.  Thank goodness the boys had talked me into adding texting to their cell phones.  With Mom on hold with her cell phone, Dad on hold on the house phone, and both of us scrambling on our computers, we were able to book him on a flight the next day but not until 1:45 in the afternoon, more than 25 hours after his planned arrival.  We talked him down off the ledge via long distance, directed him to Travelers' Aid and a hotel room for the night, and gave suggestions on how best to position himself for standby possibilities for the 7:30AM flight instead.  It involved his getting up at 5:00AM, but he managed, and at 11:30AM I got the text that he was in his classroom and his professor's French accent was not bad at all.

We had taken him to the airport in ample time, hugged and cried and done all the things we'd promised we wouldn't do (OK...I did.  Himself was a rock!) and still it didn't turn out well.  Once again I was forced to accept that there are things in the Universe about which I can do nothing.  So I did what I always do in such cases.  I sent a "knee-mail" to God.  At 5:00AM, when my younger son was getting up alone in a strange city, I was talking to the Boss, turning him over with faith that he would be protected.  In less time than it should have taken my baby to get to the airport in Philly, I got a text from him that he had his boarding pass for the 7:30 flight.

I'll learn how to do the long distance college thing eventually.  I hate having my "baby" so far away, and it may involve sending him back to school before he actually has to be there.  He learned that he can cope in a crisis (even without a toothbrush) and I learned that he can cope in a crisis (even without me) and those were two important lessons.  Now where's the sherry?  I'm a wreck!

Winter break is winding down.  Son Number Two goes off on a plane on Sunday morning.  Son Number One remains for one more week before we drive him and his girlfriend back. I am missing them both already, which is supremely stupid, because they are both still here.  This march of time stuff is getting on my nerves.

This week I heard of the death of three people from the Boston media who were legends, each in his own way.  Steve and Harry and I were colleagues when I worked in television, and Rex Trailer was our local Boston cowboy, and the gentle host of "Boomtown", a kids show which is forever engrained in the memories of anyone who grew up in Boston in the 50's and 60's.   Fade to black.  At least on THIS screen.

Meanwhile, I finally start my "Christmas job" today.  Yes, I know it's a little late, but at last I got a call to come in and we'll see how it goes.  It's a little part-time job, but it's more than I make sitting at the computer, writing this blog or solving crossword puzzles.  And it's a reason to get dressed.  Just for that, I'm excited.  I haven't had a real "job" since 1999.  Oh, there has been the odd singing "gig", a funeral here, a Mass there, caroling hither and yon.  I even substitute taught for a while.  But this might be interesting.  Out in public working with people.  Time for something new.  I'll keep you posted.

My mind amuses me sometimes.  Yesterday, for example, driving on the highway at about ten miles over the posted speed limit, I heard a scratching sound coming from the passenger side of the car in the front quarter, accompanied by an occasional "squeak".  By the time I got where I was going I had completely convinced myself that a squirrel was either A) in my glove compartment or B) sitting on my engine and clinging to life.  Neither thought made me cheerful.  I actually considered, for a mili-bleep, opening the glove compartment as I was doing 70.  The impracticality of this move, thankfully, did occur to me.  I mean, hell...what if I was right and it fell out?  Or even just grossed me out?

I controlled myself until I got to my destination, went to the outside of the car (maybe it was a branch stuck underneath?) and was relieved to see that it was only my front fender, working its way free again, as it has so often since being first pounded by a car door flung open into it as I drove by, and a year or so after we repaired that one, creased by a guardrail in a dark parking garage.  With a modified karate kick it was back where it needed to be, and tormented me no more.  Until the next time.

Which brings me to my point:  Why do I manage to manufacture the weirdest scenarios out of the simplest situations?  I have wasted more time in my life worrying about things that never happened than I care to think about.  We all do, to some extent, but I have made it into a creative art form.  Someone (I have no idea who, but whoever it was is brilliant) said: "Worrying is like sitting in a rocking chair.  It's something to do, but it doesn't get you anywhere."  I love that.  My other "worry quote source" is the Dalai Lama.  He says that worry is a waste of time.  "Either it's something you can change, and you use your energy to change it, or it's something you can't change, and you use your energy to accept it."  Someday when no one is looking I am going to swap him for the Pope.  Meanwhile, things I never saw coming continue to sucker punch me and lay me low, but I suppose that's life.  Now for a cup of coffee and a bit of quiet time so I can listen to the voices in my head....

We ran away for the weekend to visit college friends of my husband's in Long Island.  I ate too much chocolate, too much  barbecue, too much everything, and my New Year's intentions lie in tatters on the floor (which is where I slept on an air mattress).  When we visit these wonderful friends I see my sons at meal times.  They disappear into what would be a "Man Cave" in another house, but which is the lair of the eldest son here.  The boys watch movies until the middle of the night, sleep in chairs or on the floor, and eat more candy in a weekend than they usually get in three months.  In other words, it was delightful.  I am always the first to retire, but that also makes me the first to get up, book in hand, and I have a good hour or so to cuddle under a down throw in a reclining chair and read, an indulgence for which I don't seem to make much time these days.  Even the four hour ride each way was pleasant.  I slept through the (boring) audio book about Winston Churchill to which Himself and the boys were listening, and when it was my turn to drive I listened to the voices in my head.

This morning I sit here, heated and herbal-scented pink shoulder cape draped across my aching neck muscles, and wearing the bathrobe Mom bought for me about three years ago as my last real "present" from her.  There was a nightgown, too, which I wear gingerly these days.  It was thick flannel, but it's getting thinner with each washing.  When it wears out I will cry.  This robe is heavy, and too big for me (I was with her when we got it...I have no idea why I picked it out) and makes me look rather like a pink yeti, or some distant Sesame Street cousin of Cookie Monster and Elmo.  It feels like a hug, and I'm keeping it.

But now it's time to get out of the robe and into the shower and start the ridiculously long "to do" list of the day.  I have Son Number Two for this week.  Son Number One stays a week longer.  Then it's back to the quiet house, the job search, the cleaning, and the search for meaning in the universe.  Right after the search for one more cup of tea....

I'm feeling very virtuous, having survived one whole day of one of my "intentions" for the New Year.  The plan is to limit alcohol and desserts to the weekends.  Considering the fact that my father-in-law is the best baker I know and has a tendency to always have a home-made pie lurking on a counter may make this more challenging than I need it to be, but we'll see what happens.

My e-mail has been inundated with screaming ads from various sites trying to sell me what I didn't buy at Christmas.  We are in our "purge mode" over here, though.  Himself and I went through the first of about forty boxes of old photographs and discarded a stack which stood six inches high of blurry shots of various events.  Seeing the boys so small, and remembering each occasion as though it were yesterday, is a strange sensation.  I start getting all warm and fuzzy and maternal, lost in that world, when in comes a tall stranger with a booming voice, asking "What time is dinner, Mom?" and it's a bit like getting hit in the face with a cold, wet flounder.

Four boxes of VHS tapes are sitting in the garage, waiting for trash day.  I was amazed at how easily the boys let go of what I thought were childhood treasures.  It turns out that the memories are the treasures, and they take up no space at all.  I'm hoping this revelation sustains me through the Herculean task of reclaiming my bedroom for humans.  Considering this is only Day Two of the year, I am silly enough to remain optimistic!

We've made it through another one, although just barely.  The days of my looking for a wild party and staying out all night and toasting too heartily are long gone.  I'd rather stay home and put a fire in the fireplace and cuddle with Himself in front of the tree.  We have to stay sober and sane because, of course, the boys have parties of their own to go to and we have to pick them up and bring them home.  First Born is bringing back three of his friends to stay overnight after the festivities of First Night in Boston.  Truth to tell, I'd rather have them safe here than out there on the road with those whose judgements I don't trust.  I'll wake up to a mess and a mob in the den, but that's fine with me.  Baby Boy is off to a party in town with his pals and will need transportation at about 1:00AM.  At least the drive isn't long.

I don't really do "resolutions" any more.  Figuring out how to do it better is something I try to start every day before I put my feet on the floor.  Every day is New Year's around here.  Having arrived at the age when I realize that we're not guaranteed another year, I try to take it day by day instead.  My "to do" list is running on a loop, and every now and then I get to check one off.  It's very exciting.

Little by little I find myself moving towards more prayer and fewer possessions.  Which is probably a good direction to take with two outrageous tuitions to pay for the next three years.  There are no complaints.  I could be looking for money for funerals, or chemo therapy, or a million other things that people face every day.  Two smart, healthy boys in college are a blessing, not a burden.  Still, this just might be the year when I chip away enough at the collection of ...what IS that stuff anyway?...in my bedroom to the point where I can paint the walls, set up a reading corner and find a sanctuary in my home.  It could happen.  It's the age of miracles!  Be safe out there tonight, everyone.  There's a lot to do in 2013 and I wouldn't want you to miss a minute of it!

I am sitting in front of the Christmas tree and drinking my first coffee, two days after Christmas.  To my surprise, I survived Christmas Eve with missing faces around my table, and a Christmas Day itself that was crammed with music from beginning to end.  I sang at two Masses, and in the evening, when my husband and younger son gathered at Papa's to have "Christmas Dinner" (read: Chinese food) with grandparents and aunt and uncle and cousins, my older son and I went to a private party and performed with other carolers.  My son played violin for two hours, mostly without a note in front of him, and I sang with the carolers who were assigned.  Actually, I "crashed" because I had turned down the assignment.  Who works on Christmas night?  But since I was chauffeuring the violinist and had no desire to sit in a cold car in the dark for two hours, I arrived in costume.  The father of the family had decided to surprise his family with the music.  He had chosen a Dickens theme for the day, and we were greeted by Marley's ghost as we sat outside the house waiting for others to arrive.  There was the Ghost of Christmas (Past and Present), Bob Cratchit, Mr. Fezziwig, and a host of others.  I wanted to be adopted on the spot. 

From Christmas Eve to the present moment, I am not sure a vegetable has passed my lips.  Getting on the scale on Saturday morning is going to be interesting.  I am so sick of chocolate, cookies, and squash pie that I find myself longing for salad with a cottage cheese chaser.  The New Year's Resolutions may have to start early this year.  I'm not sure I can continue on this eating orgy much longer.

It's wonderful having my college sons home.  There are plates everywhere, and it really looks as though a tornado tore through the living room, but I don't care.  Their heads are on their pillows (usually until at least noon) and I know they are there, at least for the next couple of weeks.  Then it's back to school for them, back to the job search for me, and bracing ourselves for whatever 2013 holds, both good and bad.  It's like trying to walk on the deck of a ship during a storm.  You have to just "roll with it"!

 

Really?  One more trip to the mall?  Sigh.  Oh well.  I guess I get to sing "Silent Night" again.  I'm done and nearly wrapped, but my older son, who was up at 3:30 watching a movie on his computer, has one more to present to buy.  He won't be happy when I wake him up at 8, but that was a compromise.  I'd rather be at the mall at 7.

This is one of those  years when family tradition changes.  There are missing faces and extenuating circumstances, so one needs to "reassemble the troops" to get through.  The year my husband's aunt died I volunteered to cook Thanksgiving dinner "just this once".  That was in 1996, and you know, I'm sure, that it's been at my house ever since.  Christmas Eve has always been family open house on my side of the family.  We used to assemble at my parents'.  When my Dad died we moved it to my house since I had two little ones.  At least I've learned not to volunteer to sing at the Midnight Mass.  That makes Santa cranky because he can't come to my house until Himself and I (and our vampire children) are asleep.  Tonight my sisters and their husbands will come.  I may see my niece.  My nephew is going to be at his new in-laws'.  Himself will be at his parents' house, since otherwise his Dad will be alone all day with his wife, who wanders endlessly while she is awake, and rarely speaks.  My guess is one of my sons will go with him to spread a little Christmas cheer over there.  Usually my in-laws come for breakfast on Christmas morning (the only time of the year I buy bacon) and go with us to church.  Then they head for my sister-in-law's house for a proper Christmas dinner, because this side of the family is prone to Chinese food and sitting around playing with toys all day.  This year we will all assemble at Himself's parents' house on Christmas Day, and we'll import the food, although whether Chinese or Indian remains to be determined.

It's important to be able to adapt, because no matter how much we fight it, life changes.  It always will.  Deciding "It has to be this way because it's ALWAYS been this way!" is a sure recipe for broken hearts and disaster.  I've adopted a, "Well, it WAS that, so now it's THIS I guess" sort of attitude, which is much easier on the nerves.  I've even agreed to drive my elder son to a "gig" on Christmas night.  He'll play his violin at a private party for two hours while I sit in the car with a book light.  Or maybe the host will invite me into the party, too.  You never know, because it's something new...  Merry Christmas!

I was at the mall at 7 o'clock this morning.  I was there yesterday, too.  It's an interesting place that early.  Did you know that the Salvation Army is not allowed to sing carols in the mall?  So, of course, I asked the bell ringer what her favorite Christmas song was and I belted out "O, Holy Night" at the top of my lungs and people stopped and clapped and put money in the kettle.  The acoustics were even better this morning.  I'm going to miss this part of Christmas shopping, although I suspect Mall Security won't miss me.

The boys are tucked in their beds, thank you, Lord!  A two and a half hour delay getting out of Ohio did not keep my baby boy from getting home from college and I don't care what (if anything) Santa brings me now.  My Christmas is complete.  There are a million things I should be doing right this minute, but I decided to take a minute in front of the tree and just "be".  Writing the Christmas cards was more traumatic than I thought it would be.  There were a few names I passed over because they had passed on.  An ever-present ache accompanies the thought of Mom, Flanagan, and a few other friends.  The murder of 26 angels in Connecticut makes it difficult to deck the halls with complete abandon this year, too.  Still, I will celebrate that Love chose to come to earth, and the longer I live the more that means to me. 

Practice defiant joy today.  If you're still shopping, rejoice in the number of people in your life that deserve a present, instead of griping about the lines at the mall.  Start a caroling session as you stand in line.  Wear a Santa hat.  Wish everyone a Merry Christmas, whether they look merry or not. Especially if they're a "not".  Buy a stranger a cup of coffee.  SEE the person behind the cash register and realize what a tough day they're having.  Smile.  And for the love of the God who loves us, focus on the purpose of Christmas and not the "day after" sales!  Peace!  If you can't find it around you, bring it with you. :)

The Christmas cards are in the mail.  Having forgotten to take the annual picture with Santa hats when they were both home for Thanksgiving and my mother's funeral, we succumbed to two old photos of the boys, one on the campus of the older son, the other picture at the ages of 2 and 3 at a Christmas parade and looking adorable.  Because they are photo cards, and because we are out of time, there are no personal greetings on any of them.  We just shoved them in envelopes.  I hope people understand that while I was addressing the envelopes they were on my mind and in my heart.

The tree is decorated, and I snipped the long, left-leaning branch that made the angel on top look tipsy.  One more ornament and I swear it will hit the floor.  Presents are another story.  I have a long way to go on that one, but I'm not in a panic yet.  During a let up in the rain yesterday I got my sad three strings of lights on the front porch and covered the entry with fake greens.  A bow or two, and it will be done enough for my taste.  It helps a lot to disdain Martha Stewart's standards.

Most importantly, we will pick up our older son at school tonight and bring him home tomorrow.  He was up all night long writing one of three papers that he left until the absolute last minute.  I would scold severely, but I have a vague memory of sitting at the kitchen table until six in the morning and then taking a shower before taking the subway to school.  I guess he doesn't get it from the wind.  Son Number Two arrives on a plane on Friday night and then I will be ready to really celebrate.  This year Christmas is all about being together. 

Today I start a temporary, seasonal job at the mall.  For the first time in over thirteen years I'll have a boss!  I've never worked retail before, and quite frankly I have always dreaded the thought of the mall in the weeks leading up to Christmas, but I must confess that I'm excited.  It pays poorly (I make more in one hour singing than I do in three hours at the store) but it's a reason to get dressed and out of the house. 

The tree is half-decorated, Son Number One's birthday is tomorrow and I haven't even mailed a card (well, we are picking him up on Wednesday, so it's not ALL that horrible), and the rest of the house looks as though a grenade has been lobbed through an open window.  I'm good with that.  I have barely started shopping and have zero ideas of what to buy.  I have given no one a list of what I want because I don't want anything, and I'm picking up our Christmas cards today.  But as they say in The Grinch, "It comes without wrapping, it comes without bows..."

Meanwhile, my  heart is with every teacher, every school child who has to enter a classroom this morning, and who will probably never feel safe again.  Ultimately none of us is ever really safe anyway, of course.  It's an illusion.  We are no more in danger today than we were on Thursday, but we've been robbed of our selective vision that makes the world "workable".  Any day, any hour, could be our last, but if we dwell on that we will never experience joy while we're here.  We will never get anything done, never move forward.  So patch up the bubble of protection and get out there.  But don't forget to pray for peace, to be thankful for today and for your children, and to let the people in Washington know that it's time for them to do something about guns.  Now.

It's that time of year.  I woke at 4, gave up on sleeping at 5, and had the lights on the tree by 6.  There are so many things to do and no time to do them.  After some discussion we finally bought a "real" tree again this year.  I know it's a waste of money, but I hate the thought of caving and getting an artificial one.  This is by far the shortest tree we have ever had.  I actually put the angel on top by myself.  Without a ladder.  Or even a chair.  It's short and a little wide and leans to the left a little, not unlike myself.

Christmas trees have a lot of symbolism for me.  When I was fourteen, my older brother, just eight months back from Vietnam, died in a car accident at the age of twenty-two.  That was in January.  For the next couple of years there was no Christmas tree in my house.  There were no carols, and for the first year there wasn't even television allowed for my thirteen-year-old brother and me.  It was a house of mourning.  My Christmas present when I was fifteen was a Boston Rocker, which I had requested.  Many of my afternoons that first year were spent at the home of my eighth grade history teacher, Rosemary.  She had a rocking chair at her kitchen table, and I often told her I "rocked myself sane" in that chair.  So for Christmas that year I asked for a rocker of my own.  Years later I rocked my babies to sleep in that chair, and now Rosemary's kitchen rocker sits in front of my fireplace, too.

A few year's after my brother's death, my niece arrived on the scene and re-invented joy.  By the time she was walking we had a tree, but all our old ornaments had been given away, so at 17 I hand-stitched a dozen or so little cotton-ball stuffed circles out of red and green cloth, added a bow here and there, and started to re-build the collection.  Those are the first ones that go on my tree today.  During the years I lived alone I always had a Christmas tree.  Often I would pick one so big that I had to borrow a neighbor's saw to make it fit.  Some years I was the only one who saw the tree, but that didn't deter me.  The ornament collection has grown over the years, and many of them are emotionally loaded, but that's OK, too.

With the heartbreak of Newtown, Connecticut, the loss of my mother and my friend Flanagan, and so much other suffering going on in the world, it is hard to get into the spirit of the season.  But that is why it is so important to keep the flame of joy alive with strange traditions like bringing dead trees into the house, and draping twinkling lights that could turn a neighborhood street into a landing strip for lost planes.  Defiant joy.  With all the pain in the world, God chose to share our humanity.  He understands pain.  And in times like these, He is the only source of comfort.

Well, it turned out that the "Fun Run" was from the running store to the bar across the street after all.  I came in first.   Other strange holiday events this week include my mistaking the dark-haired angels with golden wings on my festive red socks for flying reindeer wearing yarmulkes.  Without my glasses on those wings really looked like antlers.  Then yesterday I decided to take the cumbersome duvet cover out of the laundry basket where it's been taking up residence for I won't tell you how long, iron it, and actually put it on the down comforter.  Not so much for decor, you understand, as to claim an inch of space in the laundry basket.  Suddenly the biblical passage about "wrestling with an angel" came to mind, except the language used in the adventure was not exactly celestial.  It's a queen comforter, which doesn't feel that big when Himself rolls over in the middle of the night and captures three-quarters of it on his side of the bed.  But when trying to tuck its four sneaky corners into what is essentially a giant pillowcase, the bloody thing is massive!  After a half hour of struggling with it, cursing it, and twisting it into strange shapes (accidentally) I did the only sensible thing.  I called my friend in Wales. 

My friend is actually English, but lives in Wales, a country I LOVE, and has for over thirty years.  They know how to deal with such things there.  He also taught me how to make a mean risotto.  Luckily he was home, and patiently, but with undisguised amusement, walked me through the whole process, which involves turning the cover inside out, then slowly unrolling it over the comforter, rather like putting on a stocking.  It worked!  And in my defense, he told me that the last time HE had had to put on a duvet cover, he had employed a word that is heard quite frequently in the States.  It began with an "F", but it wasn't "fun".

Someone asked me how I'm going to "celebrate" 12/12/12.  We're making up holidays, people, but what the heck.  Tonight I am going for a "fun run" with the running club.  It's actually more of a pub crawl, but there are sneakers (running shoes) involved, and elf costumes and Santa hats.  It's very cold out there.  The temptation to go straight to the final destination bar and order a Harpoon Winter Lager is intense, and I may well succumb.  The chances of my feeling guilty about this decision are "slim" to "none", feeling no particular obligation either to the running club or to Weight Watchers.  Nevertheless I shall happily celebrate the approaching end of this stinky year, and joyfully kick it to the curb.  Assuming the Mayans are wrong, we will get another shot at it in a couple of weeks.

Next week the boys get home from school.  At the moment, they are in the midst of final exams for the semester, and, like any good mother, I have shipped them large quantities of junk food I would never let them eat at home.  There are cookies and candy canes, Hershey's Kisses and instant cocoa, mac and cheese, and whatever that stuff is that Chef Boyardee makes.  It will get them through.  There is also a cheap Santa hat and a note from Mom.  Those are the most important items, of course.  Because even though they both tower over me, which isn't hard to do, they are still my babies.

For those of you who also forgot to look at the clock at 12:12:12PM on 12/12/12, don't feel bad.  It looked remarkably like 12:22:17.  You didn't miss much.

A construction truck lingers under my window, motor running and apparently going nowhere.  Maybe he's keeping warm until it's his turn to do something.  Maybe he's listening to the radio.  Maybe he fell asleep.  What he isn't doing is contributing to my Christmas spirit.  The "ho, ho" factor is definitely missing here.

I have been caroling all week, and most of the bookings were fun.  There was a retirement home with a lavish meal for the residents.  There was a church group social, filled with friends of mine.  Then yesterday there was the two hour booking, standing in one spot, in the Alzheimer's unit of a local facility.  Three weeks after my mom's passing, it turned out to be a lot more difficult to keep my composure than I thought it would.  I was fine until I saw the smiling old lady in the front row kissing and kissing and kissing the cheek of her middle aged son and telling him how much she loved him.  I used to get a lot of that, and suddenly a void opened up in my universe and the jolt nearly knocked me over.   Fa la la.

I've gotten as far as taking out the nativity set and dusting off the mantel.  There are fake greens and twinkle lights entwined on the railing of the staircase.  The incoming Christmas cards are still interspersed with sympathy cards, and the flowers and plants are still arriving.  It's a very bi-polar season this year.  Joy is a choice.  Defiance is a necessity.  I don't want to play.  I don't want to get in the spirit.  But I will, because joy in the face of adversity is the central message here, not commercialism.  You either believe the Savior came to Earth and it's worth celebrating, or you don't.  I do. 

Well, Thanksgiving is down.  The dust is still here, so Christmas isn't up, but we are moving in the right direction.  Which brings me to my annual problem:  We have raised non-materialistic children.  They never ask for anything.  They like to be surprised.  Santa has always brought three presents, since the Magi brought three presents for the Baby Jesus, and we really do try to work Him into the season wherever and whenever we can.  When the boys were younger Santa would take the two antique chairs in front of the fireplace and turn them so they faced the staircase.  He would pile his presents on the chairs (each boy knew which chair was his) and it would be the first thing they would see when they came down the stairs in their footie-pj's on Christmas morning.  Pirate ships and castles make a big impression visually.  I-pods and DVDs...not so much.

I miss the chaos, but I also miss the size of the gifts.  At least it looked like something.  Even though the "Christmas take" has gotten more expensive as the boys have gotten older, everything they really want could fit into their stockings along with the orange in the toe.  Poor Santa is going to have his work cut out for him this year.  I'd better start cleaning so whatever tiny thing he brings doesn't get covered by a dust dragon.  Still, I rejoice that my sons seem to understand what's really important at Christmas: love, family, and a God who took the time to show up in person when He really didn't have to, and knew it wasn't going to turn out to be much fun.  Presence.  God's and the boys' and Himself's.  That's my gift at Christmas.  No wrapping required.

Himself is working from home today, so we thought we'd sleep in.  Then the jackhammers started underneath our window at seven o'clock, and that was the end of that.  What an interesting way to start the day.  My consciousness staggered through my being, trying to make sense of what was happening.  Are we in danger?  Did a car hit the house (again)?  Where are the children?  Finally, like a swimmer breaking through the surface after a long dive, I achieved clarity.  It's just going to be a noisy, busy day. 

There are garlands of silk leaves, and pumpkins to put away.  There are evergreens and tinsel to be hauled out of the attic.  In between those two things is rather more cleaning thank I care to think about before my third cup of tea.  To top things off, I'm singing at a funeral (no one I know...I'm just a gun for hire) in less than two hours.  I sang carols for four hours in the rain on Saturday and my voice is showing it, so I'm hoping no one wants "Ave Maria" or anything too challenging.  I'm a little nervous about singing at a funeral so soon after my mother's.  I encase myself in the "emotional bubble", which serves as a shield at times like this.  The bubble also comes in handy when I know I'm going to be around people who annoy me.  I picture snide remarks and digs just bouncing off my shield and hitting the floor.  Sometimes it's kind wishes I need to deflect, but it works well either way.  It only lasts for so long, though, so I hope it's a short service.

Before all that, though, it's time for a shower, a quiet moment of prayer, and most important, EAR PLUGS!

Today is the first Christmas caroling "gig" of the season.  I've been doing this for years, but it still makes me a little nervous the first time out.  Singing for four hours in a row (with the odd break) is a challenge.  Between numbness of fingers and boredom, there are all sorts of other hazards.  On this particular outing I bring in three "character actors"; three good-natured teenagers who dress up as Frosty the Snowman, The Gingerbread Man, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and silently interact with dozens of screaming, pawing children who have come to see grandparents and Santa, but not in that order.  What a fun way to get caught up in the season!  I, dressed as a Mary Todd Lincoln look-alike, get to drive my standard shift car while wearing a full hoop petticoat (no small feat, that!) and layered like an onion.  No coats may mar the illusion of "quaintness", so under the costume are long johns, slacks with big pockets to carry money and driver's license, and a thermal shirt that works fine until we have to go inside where the temperature suddenly mimics the Equator.

Although I'm not picking up the cast for another five hours, I woke in a panic, knowing I have to touch up my costume and check for torn hems and obvious mud, find my music, and plug my addresses into the GPS so I can find the place.  Today is the beginning of Advent, and Christmas is officially on its way in my house.  Down come the decorations for fall (tomorrow....I'm busy today).  It's time to look forward with joy.  I throw as many religious carols in there as I can get away with, because that's what I like to sing.  And couldn't we all use some "tidings of comfort and joy"?