The dinner table, looking much like the breakfast table, but a little dressier:
We had a jolly time with ten at table, although I forgot the Christmas crackers. Oh, well, we'll do them tonight, since it's still Christmas, and everyone is still here, minus my mother and brother, who having arrived at 8:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve have now gone home. My husband is planning to do steaks on the grill, so we'll have some Boxing-Day fun.
Wearing today:
My Wool& Camellia dress with thrifted alpaca cardigan, bamboo-blend leggings, hidden Boody bamboo socks, and Tari boots. I probably need to add a layer --- maybe my bamboo slip --- underneath, before I go out to walk the dog. Temps are supposed to reach the high 30s today, but it's still in the teens right now.
My major project today is mending, not that it will take long. A couple of pairs of merino tights have sprung holes in the toes, and my Sierra dress has developed a weird little snip in the hemline, almost as if I'd caught it with a pair of scissors, but I can't imagine a scenario in which I could have done so. It's an easy fix, but a little mysterious.
My tired, leftover, too-much-wine-while-cooking-last-night morning face:
I love Christmas, and I'm exhausted by it. I wouldn't do it any other way than the way I do it, which involves a lot of labor --- though I'm increasingly outsourcing it to other people. My youngest daughter made French toast for breakfast yesterday morning, for example. My son and his girlfriend did the tree. Everyone supplied stocking stuffers (which means they're a lot funnier than they used to be, when I did them all).
Our pastor is one of twelve children, and has remarked on his mother's admitting to him once, as an adult, that she hated Christmas. "Mom, how can you hate Christmas?" he said, horrified. But even though I don't have anything like twelve children, I think I understand. In a lot of ways, Kirsty's Christmas in Works of Mercy is my fantasy Christmas: go to Mass, come home, put the Child in the manger, light a candle, sit for a while, then sleep. But then it's only a fantasy, not what I would actually want, because I would not trade what I have, at least not too hastily. The day will come when everyone won't be home, and as much as I think I'd love a quieter Christmas, I do dread it a little. But then I think that when it comes, it'll be okay, because everything always is, in the eternal hands.
Meanwhile, it's nice to move from the beauty and mystery of midnight, through the revelry of Christmas Day, to the quietness of the rest of the season. I used to stress out about the whole Twelve Days, because the task of making them all feel like feast days seemed impossible. We already had family traditions and rituals in place that made it hard to consider doing things like stretching out the presents for the whole season. If I had it all to do again, with little kids, I would absolutely plan for that --- one or two gifts per person per day --- and be a dragon with the grandmothers. In the one go-round I did get, I wasn't a dragon about anything, and I don't really regret that, though I think it would have been nicer to do things over the whole season, rather than having Christmas Day be the inevitable blowout.
But with adult children, it works out pretty nicely. They come for this one big day (with days on either side, which is nice for us), then the oldest ones go home to do their own big thing, which is a party on New Year's. My son-in-law's family always did their gift-giving at Epiphany, rather than Christmas, which means that he (and now his sister, too) can spend Christmas with us without short-changing their own family traditions.
And we can walk the dog, enjoy the winter sunshine, gradually pick up the chaos in the living room, and look forward to the year's turn. As much as I love decorating for Christmas, I also love taking it all down and letting the sun shine through the windows as the days lengthen again.
Reading the third volume of Sigrid Undset's The Master of Hestviken --- overall, and in concert with several of my friends, I think I may like this even better than Kristin Lavransdatter.
I can't even remember clearly all the things I got for Christmas --- a book of short stories from my son, which I look forward to diving into. Some lovely soaps in my stocking. My mother gave me a cardigan which, alas, I don't think I'm going to keep: though it's a brand I've liked (J.Jill), it's not very flattering in its shape, and the fiber content is largely nylon and polyester. I feel bad and ungrateful, but it's a perfectly good sweater that somebody else will get wear out of, so I think I'm going to Poshmark it. I'd much rather have a little extra cash to spend on a wool, alpaca, or cashmere cardigan . . . which again feels terribly ungrateful. I am grateful that somebody has taken the time to choose something for me, and that they have anticipated my enjoying it, whether I actually do or not.
That is the thing about being given clothes: I love clothes, but I really only love clothes that I have chosen. I guess if my humility were perfect, I'd just wear what comes to me without question, but my humility is not perfect. And actually, I'm not sure that humility necessarily means self-negation, especially for the sake of pleasing others or fulfilling their expectations. I'm having the same frisson of guilt around the scarf my husband gave me (black and gray acrylic infinity scarf), which I also . . . wish I liked more. I've got to remember to be directive, unfortunately, before a gift-giving occasion. He does put so much thought and care into buying me things, and he always gives me a LOT. I gave him a Wool&Prince shirt, which I knew he wanted, in a color I know he'll wear. He gives me many, many small things, many of which are delightful. My favorite gift from him, in fact, is a vintage glass pitcher, bigger than any other pitcher I currently own, and exactly what I needed. I used it for water on the table for meals yesterday, then for serving egg nog at dessert time. So I am not ungrateful. But maybe my gratitude, like my humility, is imperfect. In fact, I'm sure it is.
Oh, well. I don't know why clothes are so fraught, but they are. And I do not want to communicate to people that I don't appreciate the thought that has gone into their gift choices for me. I do appreciate the thought. I wish I appreciated the actual choices more. There is, it seems, a lesson in all of this, though I'm not sure precisely what it is.
At any rate, it's a lovely day out, and I need to go take the dog to breathe the air. And to give thanks for all the blessings and graces of this life, which have come to me in abundance, and of which this Christmas season is a sign.