'Twas the season, when chestnuts roast on an open fire. It's Dec. 17th. I am visibly distraught with sadness, knowing all of my family is scattered far and wide. Suddenly a phone call from my over 40-something son, advising me he would be coming home for a four-day visit.
What a difference a phone call makes. He was coming, and it didn't matter if he couldn't stay until the 25th. The sadness abruptly gone, I flew into action.
The Christmas decorations were whisked out of storage. The tree quickly filled with twinkling lights and tinsel. I perused newspapers, selecting events that make Christmas magic: downtown parades, "Nutcracker" ballet, a lighted boat parade. It was going to be a wonderful holiday.
Blame artist Norman Rockwell. Can we ever forget his images of smiling moms, dads, grandparents and children gathered for Christmas? Spreading magic throughout the house, every snowman, Santa, and angel had found it's place, stockings were hung with great care.
After hugs and kisses, I announced, "I have a surprise. We can drive the city and see the magic of Christmas lights, and later dine at the club, beautifully decorated with at least 20 trees sparkling in the splendor of Christmas."
"Mom, isn't there a sushi restaurant nearby? I would love some."
My heart was broken, I burst into tears. Knowing I was devastated with the sushi idea, he put his arm around me, "Sorry, Mom, forget the sushi, let's see the lights."
With a sheepish grin I answered, "Maybe Christmas is about me?" He didn't miss a beat, "Hmm, no kidding, Mom, I'll be darned."
'Twas the season, family came, we saw the lights and trees and later smiling faces dined on sushi. No doubt it is a "mom" thing.