Tuesday, December 23, 1997

Having a cow at Christmas year after year

By SHARON RANDALL

Right now, if, God forbid, you are anything like me, you may be feeling the first pangs of a Christmas panic attack.

Also known as a cow.

That is what my children call it when, faced with too much to do in too little time, my voice grows shrill, my temper gets testy and I look like a bag lady on a mission.

"Mom," they say, "don't have a cow. It's Christmas, not the end of the world."

Which is easy for them to say, seeing how the Christmas burden has not yet landed on their heads. It will someday, and when it does I will tell them not to have a cow.

Meanwhile, let us all take a calming breath - or several, if you won't hyperventilate - and consider, with only days left to Christmas, what we can in good conscience skip.

Yes, you could skip the rest of this column. But I can't, so bear with me please.

How 'bout that baking?

Every year, in my Christmas fantasy, I bake cookies for all my neighbors and friends. And bundt cakes for all my readers. But as my neighbors and friends can tell you, it's not likely to happen soon. It may be an El Nino winter, but hell has not frozen over yet.

Forget the baking. Unless you're baking for me.

Next, hand-written letters in Christmas cards. I know a woman who never fails to write long, personal notes in every card she sends. I love reading her cards. I send her a card, too, of course. I sign it, "Love, us."

Hand-written Christmas letters are a gift, a fine thing, but they in no way reflect on one's character. I say, if you don't have time to write at Christmas, don't do it. Unless you are writing to me.

The perfect party

Now, where was I? Ah, yes, entertaining. I've always dreamed of hosting the perfect Christmas party, an elegant, intimate gathering for several hundred of our closest friends. In reality, people just drop by the house, and my husband plays "Jingle Bells" on the piano for them, while I rip open a bag of Doritos with my teeth.

Forget the entertaining. Unless you're inviting me.

Two years ago, when my mother died in early December, I discovered a secret about Christmas: I don't need much to celebrate it; at least, not all that I thought I did.

It helps, of course, to have someone to love, and to feel loved by, in return. But I need that all year 'round.

For Christmas, I need three things: A quiet spirit. A grateful heart. And a sense of wonder. That's all.

And maybe a little eggnog.

This is the last column I will write this year. I'm taking time off to be with my husband, whose battle with cancer you have often had to share in reading this column, and with our children who will all be home for Christmas.

For your readership and your friendship, for your prayers and your steadfast encouragement, I am thankful beyond all thankfulness.

I'll be back in '98, Lord willing. I wish you and yours all the best in the New Year.

And for Christmas, I wish you a quiet spirit, a grateful heart and a sense of wonder.

And lots of eggnog.

Try not to have a cow.

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards.

Scripps Howard News Service