Christmas

I made lasagna for dinner yesterday. I try to make one of his favorite recipes every week. He only has four or five, so I can't make them all the time, but it makes them more special when we don't have them as often. It's like Christmas. I hate that it starts on November 1st. As soon as the last trick-or-treater has emptied his pillow sack of candy and fallen into a sugar coma, Christmas begins. Walmart has candy canes, gift sets, and bows the moment you enter the store, and Home Depot boasts blow-up Santa Clauses and pretty white-string-light-lined wicker reindeer. When I was little, Christmas was confined to December. Each year, it gets earlier and earlier, and with each day, it stretches out, and it feels less special. Diamonds wouldn't be so special if they weren't so rare, and neither would pearls, emeralds, or opals. Christmas, when stretched every which way and dragged out for as long as possible, is no longer an exciting season of parties, music, religion, friends, and family. By the time the twenty-fifth rolls around, if I have to hear "White Christmas" or watch "Home Alone" one more time, I begin to feel physically sick. I should be anticipating Christmas morning, not January 7th, when the dead Christmas trees line the road for the garbage service to collect and everyone puts the ornaments away. Still, I plan to make two of his favorite meals this week because it has been a tough few days for everyone.