For the first time in the history of the Hooks, there were no children home to enjoy the full December array of yuletide cheer I have carefully charted and orchestrated for decades.
None of the three were here that first week to help decorate the tree, nor sort through the 12 bins of Christmas decorations like we always do together. There were no children present to delight in the concerts and sing-alongs throughout the month, no young hands to help prepare the treats of the season or pin up the stockings, no voices to shriek excitedly "UPS is here!" or "It's snowing!"
Each in their 20s now, my former sugarplum accomplices are all rightfully cloistered for much of December in various corners, and I do mean corners, of the country and the continent, the eldest having moved to D.C. years ago, the middle child having relocated this year for a new job in Montana; the youngest away for a fall semester in Canada.
Buck up, Mama ewe.
Still, this first full December absence of kiddos constitutes a departure in a million different ways for a Christmas queen who has spent decades making the lead-up to Dec. 25 as magically memorable as Christmas Day itself.
And so, this year I was prepared to curl up in the fetal position with a bottle of Bailey's when I normally would be watching "Rudolph" with the clan.
Which never happened.
Ok, maybe once.
What happened more notably was that I found I like listening to Gregorian chants by myself on crisp, quiet nights in mid-December.
What happened was that I found I like the Christmas tree, lights only, without the clutter of ornaments I'd been giving the kids all these years.
I didn't rush to automatically fill the tree, nor the house with the dozens of Santas I'd carefully collected over the years, all the angel figurines, all the Christmas books and stockings, the Christmas pillows, Christmas towels, Christmas dishes, the manger scene, contained in all those bins.
Instead, with the tree twinkling blue and white at me against soft pine boughs, with gentle Christmas music playing against the falling snow and the lights I put up outside, I waited to see what called to me. Instead of rummaging through dozens of bins in the cold storage facility, looking for the angels that spell "P E A C E" to put on the bathroom ledge like I do every year, a wide, I discovered a ribbon on a gift bag made a nice bow on the aloe vera plant in the living room. Instead of setting up the elaborate season-setting manger scene, complete with hay, atop the piano, I set a handful of pine boughs I got at the Farmer's Market in a vase under two Christmas decorations a friend gave me this year. This one required me to get past the voices in my head of the Catholic nuns from my youth, admonishing me about the meaning of the season. "It's not about symbols though, right, Sister?" I was finally brave enough to say back. "And if it is, my heart is a symbol."
Organic. Thus emerged the buzzword as I allowed space for those Christmas things that came to me in the dark and in the dollar store, usually simple and inexpensive things, including a half dozen burlap bows with red glitter snowflakes I found at Dollar General while looking for anti-freeze.
Cheap by some standards, the bows, six to a card, six for a dollar, nonetheless made it home and onto the coveted branches of the tree, at which point I stood back and clapped.
The simple burlap is perfect for this year, and I am Charlie Brown, Laura Ingalls Wilder and a pioneer in a new time wrought of my children's absence with a bit of crazy American culture and 2017 politics thrown in.
What with all the voices screaming at each other all over the world, I am wanting more than ever to hear my own.
And so it is with the Hook Family Christmas, which will continue to shift and morph both this year and in years to come. These shifts constitute necessary changes I have been girding myself for, as my children move inevitably into their own adult lives, their own families and traditions. Just this year, the boys will only be home a few days before Christmas, while my daughter may not be able to get away from her job at all, another first in the history of our family.
And yet, as I have proven to myself this Christmas, I will not wallow in self pity (too much) just because my children aren't physically here with me.
I have further learned this year, like the Grinch, that Christmas not only doesn't come in a box, it doesn't come from a bin in the storage facility.
Which leads me to anticipate a question the boys will be sure to ask soon after arriving home.
"Uh, Mom, where are all the presents under the tree?"
Oops.
