I hate bad news.

I especially regret hearing bad news around the holidays. I was awake all last night with Abby because she was running a fever and coughing like a two-pack-a-day smoker. I kept her out of school today so we both slept in a bit this morning. I heard wailing sirens pass my house around 8 A.M., but I paid them no mind. With the fire house right down the street, I hear alarms and sirens hourly, and have learned to tune them out. When I got myself together later in the morning, I called my mother-in-law, who lives right across the street (cue the Everybody Loves Raymond theme). She told me that the sirens I heard were for the neighbor a few doors down. Apparently the man, who is close in age to my own husband, with children of his own, died in his sleep with no indication that there was anything wrong the night before. I imagine it was his wife who must have found him this morning, and I can't begin to conceptualize the grief that she and the rest of the family must be dealing with today.

It's going to be a sad Christmas for them this year, and this reminds me that - as much as I gripe and groan about sharing my king-sized bed with George, who snores like a chainsaw and kicks all the blankets off the bed on the coldest nights - to be thankful for such agaitation. I know it's such an old song, but I guess it really is true, that you never should go to bed angry. Not any one of us, no matter how young, are given the promise of the morning.