Apparently, I’m a mean one, Mr. Grinch.
I think, because none of the kids were home during my usual manic holiday decorating phase, I may have flipped on the “Woe is me, I hate everyone” switch. I dragged the 16 Rubbermaid containers from the cellar and up the stairs myself. Oh, I know it’s a first world problem, believe me, but let me have it. I took all the lids off, flung them down the basement stairs like Frisbees and set to work. I sighed heavily. What a yuletide whiner I was.
My husband had to watch football and I had to smack him on the back of his head with a wise man each time I passed his recliner. He never felt a thing. But what he did was pause his game to critique me at every turn, or at every hung light. I wasn’t amused. No way was I hanging his stupid golf ball ornament this year. It joined the lids, down in the dark abyss of a basement, where both my zest for decorating and the ghost of Christmas past resided.
He came out of his TV stupor long enough to stand in front of the tree, hand on chin, contemplating and circling as I simmered.
“You forgot to turn the tree to the good side! There’s a gaping hole in the front!”
“Listen, if you helped me, you could’ve turned that tree from here to Altoona. What difference does it make, anyway? You don’t have a good side, and I still keep you around.”
“And don’t forget the garlic! Lots of garlic!”
I sighed heavily, as I do each time he repeats this tired, old joke, resurrected every year. He means “garland” and he thinks that calling it “garlic” is a seasonal knee-slapper.
It’s not.
“You know we don’t use garland.”
And every year, he looks aghast.
I moved on to outside decorating, where I dragged a 10-foot ladder to and fro, while swagging my pine roping and swooping the lights. It was aggressively raining, but it was warm and snugly inside where Nancy had made a lateral move from the recliner to the couch. He arose only to tap on the window repeatedly.
“Those lights are uneven! Uneven! UNEVEN! “Because I was ignoring him, he assumed I couldn’t hear him. That pretty much sums up the dynamic of our entire marriage.
I dried off and came inside to show him the new, fancy remote control on/off timer I bought. It was like the Gift of the Magi. He was enthralled. I hadn’t seen him so amused since Santa brought him a Scooby Doo Chia pet. He clicked it on. He clicked it off. He clicked it on. He repeatedly exclaimed: “Lights on! Lights off!” December was going to be a long month.
My Christmas crankiness continued throughout the evening; my husband segued into his third football game, I continued the tree trimming marathon.
And then, as I lifted ornaments from the Rubbermaid, something magical occurred.
The sled made out of Popsicle sticks, by my son when he was in 3rd grade, showcasing his tiny, adorable face. My daughter’s kindergarten picture within a petite wreath crafted from crumpled-up spit balls of green tissue paper. My youngest son, premature at 30 weeks, nestled in my arms, so tiny he weighed as much as a bag of flour, showcased within a Baby’s First Christmas ornament.
With each one I hung, my small heart grew three sizes!
I was Grinch no more. The spirit was back! Whoville was fun again! Christmas Day will always be just as long as we have we. Welcome Christmas while we stand heart to heart and hand in hand.
But still, no golf ball ornament will be hung. Even fun Grinch has limits.
