The Christmas We Make

I’m sitting on my couch in a room transformed into the Christmas my husband and I never felt we had. Both of us had mothers with illnesses, especially around the high-stress times of Christmas, and we tiptoed through the house hoping not to aggravate things. So now we have stockings (hanging on a windowsill; our mantle is a fake fireplace and scaled to make the stockings look ridiculous). We have greenery and seasonal stuffed toys and a now-collectable Avon Christmas train tree that plays tinny Christmas carols. And a tree, lit like my tree in my childhood was, with little multicolored lights. (These modern lights are a bit day-glo, but I’m okay with that).

We play Christmas music almost non-stop. One thing I didn’t know about my husband when I met him is that he has an ever-growing set of Christmas albums on iTunes. Right now, it’s cool jazz; I’m looking forward to some classical pieces on the soundtrack.

This is where some would piously import that trees and such aren’t the real meaning of Christmas. I would argue against this; the real meaning of Christmas is celebration. Let people celebrate the spirit of good that they will. Richard and I celebrate recovery from painful childhoods, among other things. We celebrate that we can make a Christmas for ourselves.


I really apologize for the test note blog yesterday — I was testing to see if IFTTT could submit a post announcement to Twitter and Facebook so I could quit the extra step of using Hootsuite to post. (Note: It can’t.) Ten of you actually read the post, which is really nice of you.)

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