Yesterday I wrote about how I’m married to a Scrooge and that for any Christmas cheer to be spread in our house it’s up to me to spread it. Wayne doesn’t string lights, wrap garland (or presents), or mess with picking trees. His one and only contribution is getting our fiber optic tree out of the attic. After that I don’t bother asking for any more Christmas assistance because I know all I’ll get is a big bah humbug.
I sort of envy those women whose husbands get into the spirit without too much griping. The ones who take the time to hang lights outside, go searching for the family Christmas tree, and who even recap the family’s past year in a Christmas letter.
Case in point (two in fact): our neighbors Ron and Tina seem to work on Christmas together. He helps with the inside as well as takes it upon himself to get the outside lights all set up. Wayne’s domain in taking care of our house is the outside: cutting the lawn and raking leaves. He loves doing that and I never have to worry about him taking the initiative on that front, but to be like Ron and hang lights? Until yesterday, when I had to trouble him to get those out of the attic too, Wayne didn’t even know where they were kept!
And then there are our friends Christian and Christy. Christian takes charge of their annual Christmas letter and updates friends and family on the highlights in both of their lives from the past year. His letters are always tinged with humor and lots of information so, if you’re friends like us who lives states away, you feel completely reconnected by the end of them.
I guess I have to concede that Wayne does want to help with the Christmas letter. Throughout the year he’ll even make comments like, “Ooh! We should put that in the letter this year.”
The trouble with that contribution is…Wayne has a bit of a dark humorous side. Something he thinks should make the letter is bound to be potentially offensive.
For example, one year he suggested we borrow a couple of different kids from our friends. Boys and girls and various ethnicities and skin color. Then he wanted to write about how we went on a great adoption spree. (This was back during a spell when the infamous “When are you going to have kids?” question was prevalent.)
Okay, it was sort of funny, but I’d never do that for an official letter. I always strive to write letters like Christian’s, ones with depth and an abundance of love flowing from them. Wayne thinks those are boring. (Some years I have to agree with him. I don’t always live up to my expectations for myself in content.)
But, even for all his naysaying and grumbling, Christmas still happens in our house. The letter gets written, the cards get sent, the tree (humble as it is) goes up, garland dons the stairs inside and out, lights bedeck the outside of our house, and presents get both bought and sent.
My workload dramatically increases this month, and it’d be nice to have a husband wanting to be a more willing participant (or a participant at all), but there is one thing he does honestly cherish: spending time with me during the holidays and looking forward to my Christmas dinner.
That’s the cake and the true meaning of Christmas, isn’t it? The rest is all icing –and sometimes it’s not nearly as tasty and sweet as the cake it’s covering.
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