Last week, in Theory25:Dang you Tupperware ladies, dang you! But I do love your products, I
confessed that I’ve purchased only two Christmas gifts—thanks to a
guilt-shopping experience at a friend’s direct marketing “party”. Today is
December 20, 2013. I am in the red zone and totally stressed out about
Christmas. I do love holidays, just like I love Pampered Chef products, but boy
do all the preparations and expenses take a toll on me. Plus, holidays bring
intense thoughts that further scatter my brain. Tall Child and I miss our fathers.
I feel so sorry for the paper inhabitants of the Angel trees. I feel guilty for
being absent so often at church this year. I grieve for the grieving. I
look at my beautiful Gnome and wonder how his birth family feels this holiday.
My heart breaks for men and women still waiting to become parents through
adoption. Women connect it all: left brain lists, obligations, and
responsibilities and right brain emotions, attitudes, and energy. I have too
much to think about and do and it’s making me sad and mad. My anger seems to be
directed toward men, and from what I hear in the teachers' lounge, I’m not the
only Mrs. Claus with claws this time of year.
Yes, I am the Grinch of Glen Cove
subdivision, (Though I wish I were as skinny as grinch. I’m up 4 lbs., which
ain’t helpin’ my mood!) Worn out women should be focused on the birth of
Christ, not hypocritically singing “You’d better not pout, you’d better not
cry, you’d better not shout I’m telling you why….” Christmas is a musical time.
Here’s a medley for ya:
“I don’t know about you, but I’m
feeling” 42 and
“I work hard for the money” but“[I] load 16 tons, and what do [I] get, another day older and deeper in debt”
I’m warning, “Whoa oh here she comes, watch out boy she’ll chew you up.
Whoa oh here she comes, she’s a maneater.”
So, Tall Child, please “get physical, physical, I wanna [you to] get physical,
Let's get into physical,
Let me hear your body talk, your body talk,
Let me hear your body talk” as it strings these LED lights, finds the extension cord, digs that big wreath out of basement, and assembles this plastic version of the Alamo. Now.
Hey, at least I can say “Mama
tried.”
We women can’t just toss out some
red and green Dollar Tree objecto de` artos. Oh, noooooo. We must create magical,
mystical, battery and electronically powered worlds. Actually, we must create experiences that awaken and entertain
all the senses, at once, every moment of every day, for at least thirty
straight days. Our homes should look and
feel like the inside of a snow globe.
The Christmas to-do list is
monumental, complex, and IMPORTANT and women who “have it all” also have to “do
it all.”
Honestly, have you ever heard
anyone say, “I can’t believe [insert man’s name] didn’t put up a Christmas tree yet”
or “[Man’s name], have you bought any Christmas presents” or “Hey, [man’s
name], which Christmas Eve service are ya’ll attending?”
To illustrate, listen to the
conversation I had last week with Fancy (university professor and mother of
three boys):
Location:
Elementary School Gym, back row so we can lean our aching bodies against the
cinderblock wall and not lose our pocketbooks through the bleacher gaps
Bug: We drove by your house last night and booed you because your tree
wasn’t on.
Fancy: I don’t have a tree.Bug: What! It’s the middle of December. Better get with it, Fancy.
Fancy: [Expletive], I have not had one minute to get a tree.
Bug: Can you get one today?
Fancy: [Expletive], my three boys have 6 basketball games today.
It never occurred to me to ask
her husband, The Gentleman, who was sitting right beside me, if HE had bought a
tree. He just sat there, looking handsome, eating popcorn, watching the
ballgame, dreaming of a white Christmas.
I’m not bashing Tall Child and
friends. They care. Tall Child, as his nickname should imply, LOVES holidays. Last
Halloween, I hit five stores to assemble Sharky’s zombie fighting Rick Grimes
Walking Dead costume, fought Gnome into his football player costume, bought candy,
took treats to Gnome’s daycare party, and made trick-or-treating plans. Tall
Child did escort Sharky and friends through a neighborhood. He also rolled a
yard. Well, actually, he panicked and rolled a tree. I love that guy!
I did create Christmas jobs for
Sharky and Gnome as follows:
Sharky: water tree, get mail (Christmas cards)
Gnome: push the red button on the
white box to turn on the pretty tree lightsSharky: water tree, get mail (Christmas cards)
*Cute note: When we brought the
tree in and set it upright, Gnome said, “Yay! Now turn it on!”*
Let’s break this Theory down by
the senses, then further break it down by traditional gender responsibilities.
This may reek of Southern female submissive wives. But, hey ya’ll, we love our
big ol’ strappin’ men. |
| Like any man, proud of his hard work. |
Sound
Women: We hear screaming hyper children and wrangle them. We tolerate Santas and rocking Rudolph’s on our counters, which means we also have to unplug and replug the toys to open Spaghettios. We carol and force our children to carol. When carolers come to the door, we listen and force our children to listen, while men hide in their recliners. What happens if the Domino's guy comes to the door while the carolers are singing? Should he join in? Should we tip everybody? We hear glass ornaments hit hardwood. Then we hear ourselves sweeping said glass into dust pans.
Men: Men hear themselves crack walnuts that women left in a festive dish on the coffee table. Men hear ESPN Gameday.
 |
| Shaking his Christmas booty |
Smell
Women: We light evergreen and apple spice candles. We lean cinnamon-infused
brooms from Kroger against entry walls. Men: Say, “Oooh, something smells gooood.”
Men: Ripping paper. No bags for my guy. Tall Child prefers presents
wrapped in tissue, encased in boxes, wrapped in pretty paper, tied with ribbons
that require scissors. It’s an experience,
remember? He’s okay with a t-shirt or socks or his annual one-a-day devotional
calendar as long as they are wrapped this way.
I took a break from Christmas
cards for a few years. But, after we brought home Gnome, understandably, Tall
Child begged me to send Christmas cards. I pitched a hissy fit and demanded he
at least stamp and mail the envelopes. He stamped them alright, on the top left
corner of all 200 envelopes. I pitched a hissy fit sequel and said, “People are
going to think I don’t know how to put a stamp on an envelope and I teach
business education!” Tall Child argued, “I did it.” I argued back, “Nobody will
believe that.” (He IS too good to be true sometimes.) Tall Child went to the
post office and asked a clerk for clarification, called me, and said “No
problem. Stamps work anywhere. Cards are going out today. No delays. That’s
right. Who’s your daddy?”
 |
| Christmas cards from better people than I am |
Taste:
Women: We hit the grocery store one thousand and one times. We bake cookies and simmer fragrant dishes for our families,
other families, our office parties, our husbands’ office parties, for our
mothers, our mother-in-laws, potlucks, you get it. And we figure out ways to carry it all without ruining our work and doling out food poison.
Men: Eat.
 |
| Teacher Treats |
Sight:
Women: We create and foster the experience. Then, we create miniature
experiences within the experience, a.k.a. the Christmas Village and Nativity sets.
We also design the system. Glass ornaments up high. Stuffed animals down low. Lights
in front of windows. Something shiny for each neighbor. Appropriately spaced
candy dishes, nutcrackers, Santa collections…. And, of course, we monitor and protect all the
above. I’m losing my grip. Joseph went for a Jeep ride, wrecked, and did not
recover. Jesus is flat out missing. The last I saw him he was wrapped in
swaddling clothes and hiding under a bedspread with some banana bread crumbs.
Men: Say, “This looks awesome! I love Christmas! Thanks for doing
all this Bug.”
 |
| An aerial view of an experience within an experience |
 |
| Thanks for the thumbs up, S.C.! |
Tall Child, please find Joseph. Mary shouldn't have to do this all alone.
Let us "recall, the most famous [sense] of all" - the Sixth Sense - one of Spirits:
I have to confess. I am terrified
I’ll forget about Santa Claus. Not only do I have to ensure that the original
legend is protected, but I also—dad gum it—created my own mythical tasks (back
when I was a relatively stress-free housewife hopped up on happy juice and
holiday spirit).
Now I have to be you-know-who AND
make sure you-know-who eats cookies, drinks milk, and wipes his dirty boots on
the rug I place in front of the fireplace. Then I have to make sure Sharky and Gnome
leave a Christmas card for you-know-who and later write him a thank-you note.
Shoot. We haven’t even written him a Dear Santa letter yet. At least I can get
Tall Child to stamp and mail it.
Don’t even get me started on Elf
on a Shelf. Ca-ching and congrats to the mother who thought up that tale! Gnome
named his elf Blarg. Huh? At least he bought the story hook, line, and sinker. Unfortunately,
I’m not the best at leveraging legends. Yesterday I said, “Gnome, you are acting
ugly. You’d better straight up because Blarg can see you.”
Gnome said, “No he can’t. He’s in
the other room.”
Male readers, don’t be haters. I get
tired, but I love doing all this work to see Gnome, Sharky, and Tall Child
happy. I know that many of you help create magic for your families. I work with
great men and am married to my dream come true. So, take this post in stride.
And, answer this question: Why do scissors always disappear on December 24?
The moral of this diatribe is that if I ask my 6-foot-3-inch tall elf to carry a box, or set up a manger scene, or put lights on a bush, he should just do as he's told. Tall Child and friends, if it helps, think of it as a competition, pretend you are on a basketball clock, and, as we used to chant at Pigeon Forge Tiger ballgames, "h-u-s t-l-e, hustle, hustle, totally!" If your lady asks you to help, don't argue with the coach. Be all Nike and Just Do It.
Wake up, men, we need you!
The moral of this diatribe is that if I ask my 6-foot-3-inch tall elf to carry a box, or set up a manger scene, or put lights on a bush, he should just do as he's told. Tall Child and friends, if it helps, think of it as a competition, pretend you are on a basketball clock, and, as we used to chant at Pigeon Forge Tiger ballgames, "h-u-s t-l-e, hustle, hustle, totally!" If your lady asks you to help, don't argue with the coach. Be all Nike and Just Do It.
Wake up, men, we need you!
And please ask your
wife/mother/girlfriend how you can help her. If your best buddy is a Christmas
dud, help a brother out. Go hang lights and haul stuff at his house and keep
the po-po at bay this Christmas. Don’t leave the tree stand on the tree when
you throw it down the hill January 1. Which brings me to Theory 27: The epic, memorablemarital arguments have titles.
Oh, and Tall Child, “What are you
doing New Yeeeeaaaaar’s, Neeeeew Yeeeeaaaaar’s Eve?”
See you next post. Until then, think outside the barn.
Also, visit Amazon.com or my website to read about my book, The Eye of Adoption, my short story, Field Day, and my collection of essays for parents and teachers, Parents, Stop and Think.
Author website: www.jodydyer.com
Also, visit Amazon.com or my website to read about my book, The Eye of Adoption, my short story, Field Day, and my collection of essays for parents and teachers, Parents, Stop and Think.
Author website: www.jodydyer.com
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Author website: www.jodydyer.com
