It seems that everyone is writing about Christmas, how they do Christmas, what their special traditions are, what makes their Christmases special.
I am so bad at Christmas that my third child's favorite holiday is the Fourth of July.
This year, on December 5, when everyone else was putting the final sparkly touches on their Christmas trees and printing up their Christmas letters, I went to the hospital and had my womb cut out.
The doctor told me, "The Christmas tree and the decorations and all that... you just let somebody else take care of all that this year." Except. There isn't anybody else. I mean, there's Shawn, and I love him, but he can't do Christmas by himself while holding down a job and taking care of me. Seriously. I am one pain of a patient. I whine like a three-year-old. "I don't want to eat. I'm not comfortable. I don't know if I took my pain medicine or not. I don't like this... it's not my favorite." Poor Shawn.
And there really is not anybody else. We don't belong to the community yet, and our children have all moved away. I think I know where the boxes of decorations are since the move, but I don't know what to do about it.
Shawn went to an abbreviated portion of his company Christmas party tonight, and then to the store to procure necessities, while I stayed home in bed and watched the sky get dark. There are points in life when a person feels very alone.
BUT. Shannon says she's going to come home and make Christmas cookies, so the pastries will be excellent.
I thought I might get a chance to do some good writing while I rested and healed, but I'm finding my attitude very lacking.
Nevertheless, we will have a tree and cookies by December 25. And we might even leave the tree up until almost the end of January. That's usually how I do it, anyway.