The Bearded Lady Ornament

"What's with the bearded lady?" my son asked around a mouthful of cereal.

"It's a muff, Nick," I sighed with a roll of my eyes.

Nick grunted and shoveled more sugar puffs into his abyssal mouth. "Don't forget I'm going to Dad's tonight."

Ouch, Nick, why don't you just stab me with the butcher knife. I muttered, "How could I forget?" Fiddling with another ornament, I bit my lip to keep my true feelings below the surface. As a mom and respected leader of my community, it was required that I be untouchable by anything emotional. Even if I was going to be alone on Christmas Eve.

"You're the one who kicked him out, Mom," said Nick, the world's wisest sixteen-year-old.

"Nick, please not now." I didn't care if I was whining at this point. "Make sure you have everything you need." I placed another glass ball on the saggy pine tree drooping in my living room.

Three hours later, I sat in front of that now glittering tree, nursing a cup of hot cocoa and wrapped up in blankets. Bing Crosby crooned about snow in the background, but outside the window, it was still as dry as a bone. I flipped on the TV to catch the last scene of It's a Wonderful Life, the perfect reminder that my family wanted nothing to do with me tonight.

I frowned at the closest ornament, the bearded lady. "Why do I have to be the bigger person? Why can't I just throw a tantrum whenever I feel like it?" Great, now I'm complaining to a freak-of-nature ornament. My life was pathetic. I drew my blankets over my head, clicked my heels together three times, and chanted softly, "There's no place like sanity. There's no place like sanity. There's no place like sanity."

Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and admits that her creativity levels are running extremely low.

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