The Time Has Come, the Walrus Said...

I had my first child at age 17. Hard to believe he's already 59! And me so young! He was rapidly followed by a brother and even more rapidly by another. Time passed and so did the marriage. I returned to Pennsylvania and found work, a home, and a new husband. After a couple of years, the three brothers soon welcomed a fourth and then a fifth. Then I stopped. There was to be no girl, but when they all grow up and get married, I reasoned, I'll have my daughters. That first year, I had a modest Christmas tree and a few little presents for the Little King. At four months of age, what would he know of Christmas? Guess I've always been of a practical mind, because even at a young age, I knew it was wasteful to make a huge splash for such a tiny kid. But we did have a Christmas. A tree, a dinner, presents and Silent Night on the radio. And thus the first Christmas was born. After that, with the exception of one year when a daughter-in-law wanted to do it and a year when I was virtually homeless and the three older children were living with a friend while I searched for a home for all of us, after that, I had hosted every. single. Christmas. for fifty-six years. During many of those years, I was employed in a full-time job. Well, not the same full-time job. And I put up a tree, and strung lights on the front porch, and fashioned wreaths from pine cones, and ribbons and anything else that goes with the season. I cleaned and cooked and baked and shopped and wrapped and hid what I wrapped. Cookies covered every surface and filled the extra space in the freezer. And on Christmas, I was the elf who put together bikes and trains and Big Wheels and various other items that I would have gladly paid to have assembled, if I had the money, that is. Through gall bladder surgery, heart valve replacement surgery, cancer surgery and chemo, I never missed a Christmas. And all the activities that preceded it. I found time in the later years to perform in the Dicken's play A Christmas Carol most of the month of December, and crocheted six afghans to give as gifts during my down-time backstage. But this old Walrus is suddenly tired. Last Christmas, there were 24 of us. I don't ask for help. Only one person ever offers, but that person has a house, a job and children, so I usually say, "It's okay, I can handle it." Events of the past year and the realization that I am too old to do it all and the fact that I'm not sure it it's even appreciated has forced me to come to the realization that the party's over. I'm left with the task of informing the family that they will have to make other arrangements for their Yuletide celebration this year. Two people have already been told. They accepted it with aplomb. Two others were upset and appalled but realize that I need to do this.