Bologna with no BreadTonight we decorated our tree and house. While I’m sure we’ve done it a time or two without our son while he was away at college, this year seemed to take on a different feel. It’s just my husband and I.
We did all the traditional things—Christmas carols on the stereo, chili and garlic bread for dinner, hot buttered run while decorating—but it seemed empty. Our son loves Christmas and makes such a celebration of the decorating process. Plus, he’s very artistic and has an eye for what goes where, what needs tweaking. Hubby and I, on the other hand, are real klutzes when it comes to decorating, whether the house or the tree.
I think this year had a sense of finality about it. He’s married and probably decorating his own tree and apartment. He won’t be home again. Of course, we’re delighted to have raised a son who actually left home. Who is actually making a living and living a life apart from ours. That’s good. We’re delighted to have a son who knows what it means to leave and cleave rather than move himself and his wife in with Mom and Dad. Good feeling. We “did good.”
But in the process of raising an independent son, we raised one we enjoy being with. We not only love him; we like him and we respect him. When he comes home, we talk and talk and talk for hours on end. And we feel the same about his sweet wife. We don’t get much sleep when they’re here. Sometimes we sit at the breakfast table until mid-afternoon, just talking about life. And so, we miss them.
Our first Christmas as parents of a married son. His first Christmas as a married man. The end of an era. The beginning of another…