Christmas is nearly here and I’m celebrating with my mother, who is 97 years old. That’s a lot of Christmases to have under your belt – sparse ones when she was a child, ones where she spent her money on her children to make their Christmas great and Christmases now, when she is dependent on others to help her buy gifts and cook. But Christmas is a time of peace, hope and joy no matter how she celebrates it.
The tree is lit and decorated. The presents are under it. She’s finishing up cards (I have to do that also). We’ve sung Christmas carols. I’ve been to church. A friend died yesterday. She’s sad about that, happy about having her daughter with her, missing my brother and his family.
She’ll spend some time with her great-grandson, who turned 3 on Friday. We’ll have a little party here. But his grandmother, her stepdaughter, is the one who decided how the party would go – not my mother. That’s a shame. My mother is the type who could plan a party that would be fun for a 3-year-old. Oh well, that’s how things goes in families.