There were a few moments in December when I didn't think Christmas would ever come to our household. Always winter but never Christmas. Or if it came I wouldn't recognize it. But like an old friend with a haircut it arrived unchanged. Being "behind" bore its own fruit. The children were patient with me. Fiona decorated a bit on her own and sent a few family Christmas cards while I was in the back room trying to furiously finish off final papers and projects. I missed two of Myles' concerts, but the final one, the Britten one was well worth the wait.
It also meant that I never had time to drive to my favorite local book shop, but instead found treasures waiting for me in the Bryn Mawr used book store down the street; a beautiful fairy tale for Fiona, Agatha Christie paperbacks for Myles, a vintage Beverly Cleary and Rumer Godden for nieces, and more.
But now I am finished and have had a moment to clove an orange with Fiona, get a tree, make some cookies and think about another year gone by with happiness and sorrow both. The mystery of Christmas is upon us and I am thankful that its sanctity disregards our lowly state, prepared or not.
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