Every year at Christmas I end up decorating the house with less enthusiasm than the last. I haven't figured out exactly why that is but I think it may have something to do with the fact that I'm older, tired, worn out. Or maybe I just don't see the point.

I don't consider myself a Scrooge but I can tell you, setting up the Gingerbread Village with its five hundred little bitty pieces was a sight more fun twenty years ago than it is today. Today I fingered the box that holds it, calculated the time it would take to unwrap, display, then re-wrap it all and I quickly put the box away.

Ever see those Christmas movies where the whole family gathers together one special night to decorate the tree? They pop some popcorn, drink a little nog or hot chocolate, and bounce around like crazy people as Bing Crosby sings It's a Marshmallow World on the old record player.

Not my family.

Trimming the tree and decking the halls has been a one-woman job around my house for the last thirtyeight years and I'm not expecting that to change anytime soon.

In case you didn't know, sons are rarely "into" creating storybook Christmases. All I have to say is "I'm putting up the tree tonight" and my sons scatter like Washington-Wilkes Tigers after a game at Buddy Bufford Field.

A husband is useless, too. He may be good for untangling a few lights but by the time you're ready to place the star on the tree, he's sawing logs in his La-Z-Boy, and you and Jay Leno finish the job together, as always.

Like I've said before, God didn't see fit to give me girls, and for most of my adult life I've just tried to stay afloat in a tumultuous sea of testosterone. It does no good to complain. Genetics being what they are, it is simply my lot in life to make all our holidays merry, and to do it solo.

Take cookie baking. Have you seen the cheery mothers with the flour-covered aprons lovingly training curly headed girls in the art of cookie cutting? Not me.

I tried it once. I bought cookie cutters in the shape of snowmen, gathered all the ingredients, rolled out the dough, and even sprinkled red and green sugar on the tops of the tiny round lumps before I baked them.

Removing the last batch from the oven, flour from head to toe, I looked like I'd been in a food fight and lost. The kitchen was a disaster. It would take me a good two days to clean all the surfaces where the mixer had spewed cookie dough.

My cookies, however, looked marvelous. I arranged them artistically on a sparkling Santa plate and waited for rave reviews. Yeah, right.

My younger son ran through in a mad dash to his room to dress for a date. Eyeing the freshly baked goodies on the stove, he headed for the cookie jar.

Finding it empty he yelled, "Hey, Mama! Got any Chips Ahoys anywhere?"

I ate every one of four-dozen red and green Christmas cookies all by myself and felt I deserved every single one of them, and the bi-carb, too.

With my sons on their own now (one is married) and living far away, I seldom put out the Lionel Train that used to wind its way 'round the bottom of the tree and, not wanting to burn them down, I leave the holly scented candles in the closet. Besides, what man just can't live without burning candles? I don't know any.

My Christmas dishes will no doubt stay in the china cabinet and if I put up a tree at all, it will be a small one. The last big live tree we cut here on the farm was so huge it took me half the morning to get it inside and set up, and only moments to realize it was covered with cow manure.

Don't get me wrong; there will be Christmas here at the McGees. There will be gifts, games, and lots of laughter. Like my mother used to say, "We're going to be together as a family and have a good time, even if it kills us!"

There will be apples and oranges, peppermints, walnuts, and for old time's sake Lifesaver "books." Santa might even make a run to South Carolina for some fireworks and, if my prayers are answered, we'll have our children back home to shoot them.

So I leave some ornaments in the box. So I don't string popcorn garland by the yard like I used to. So I don't stick a wreath on every window, the mailbox, and the cars. So what? Maybe I'll get my second wind when we have grandchildren. For now, I'll settle for having all my men at home.

Their stockings are hung. And at this very moment, Bing is serenading me with I'll Be Home for Christmas. And fellows, just so you'll know, there are plenty of Chips Ahoy in the pantry.