How the cat saved Christmas

Reflections on decorating the house for the nine millionth time. I am far from Martha Stewart, but every year we just seem to have more "stuff" to put up, so it takes way longer than we think. A wreath appeared over the fireplace and I wondered how it got there, then I realized my husband must have put it there - without being asked! It seemed like a Christmas miracle, until I realized we'd been at it 2 1/2 hours and were nowhere near done.

I wouldn't mind, but -. It's the memories. They should be good ones, they ARE good, some of them anyway, except when I realize a handmade ornament from a grandkid has become antique. The days of salt dough and poster paint are coming to an end. Meantime, every item, every ornament has these memories, these damn memories stuck to it, and not all of them are all that pleasant. 

We sometimes replicate our childhood, and for a while I did and found a lot of ways to ruin Christmas, or almost. It's usually good now, but hauling all this stuff out - . EVERY year I say, this year I'll enjoy it, or at least: this year I won't mind it, or at least: this year I won't hate it. And I hate it. 

Once it's finally done, now that I am old, my back aches and I can't drink eggnog any more like I used to, or anything else for that matter. And I haven't baked anything because - phhhssssshht - baking?? But we have a new edition in the house, and it's his first Christmas here. A stealthy cinnamon tabby who wound his way up the trunk of the blinking tree and stared out at us with dilated owly eyes. Whenever you tried to hang an ornament, a white paw would shoot out and biff you in the nose. I guess there are consolations. (Addition? Edition seems better to me.)

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