The Twelve Daze of Christmas

ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS, My True Love explained that, since it had been my idea to adorn the Leyland Cypress out front with Christmas lights, I would have to be the one to string them. Mind you, light-stringing isn’t exactly on my list of “Things I Love To Do.” It’s not even on my list of “Things I Can Do When I Put My Mind To It.”

For that matter, standing on the top rung of a four-foot ladder isn’t in my repertoire, either. I’m afraid of heights. So try to imagine, if you will, a knock-kneed woman in a bright green, Land’s End jacket on a ladder by a tree on the side of her garage, trying to look cheerful and competent whilst strangling an unwitting tree with strands of cheap-as-they-come Hobby Lobby lights. All this while trying to restrain the mind-numbing fear of falling face-first into the tree.

And after all that, I was one strand short.

ON THE SECOND DAY OF CHRISTMAS, My True Love declared that he was awfully sorry that my hands and wrists had broken out in an itchy, red rash from the Leyland Cypress sap of yesterday’s light-stringing extravaganza. Nevertheless, he did say he’d go out and buy me that extra set of lights. That’s not the way it happened, though. I went out and bought the lights myself.

ON THE THIRD DAY OF CHRISTMAS, My True Love interrupted our morning coffee time in order to run upstairs and “check an auction” on Ebay. Like any cherished wife, I knew in my heart of hearts that he was buying me a Christmas present. What else could he possibly be doing? Besides, if he had been bidding on some ridiculous Boy Toy for himself, he wouldn’t have told me about the auction in the first place – right?

When he came down grinning a few minutes later, I knew I was right. Of course, if we’re going to split hairs, I’d much rather he not be so apparent while attempting to surprise me. I’d rather not know that I’m going to be surprised; I’d rather simply be surprised. When you know you’re going to be surprised, it’s not a surprise anymore.

(I haven’t even received the gift yet and I’m already griping about it.)

ON THE FOURTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, My True Love picked up my parents at the airport. This was an especially loving thing for him to do, since my parents’ flight didn’t arrive until after 9:00 at night. By the time they arrived at my front door it was past my bedtime. I’m sure I was a vision of loveliness in my eleven-year-old bathrobe and make-upless face. Ah, but I am a Daddy’s Girl, after all. I could have answered the door sporting a six-inch beard and several tattoos and my father would have found me beautiful, anyway.

Not sure My True Love would appreciate the beard, though.

ON THE FIFTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, My True Love left me standing in the cold, holding onto the trunk of the Christmas tree that I had just helped him dig out from the very back of the tree stack. For some reason, My True Love wasn’t quite sure about the level of perfection of this particular tree, but he didn’t want to rule it out, either. Since we couldn’t exactly drag it along with us, I ended up standing there with the tree while the rest of my family lumbered on through the rows.

I wasn’t happy. In fact, I was so cold that I zoned out and completely ceased to care if we ever got a Christmas tree at all. It was the tree and I, battling the elements together, while My True Love continued his tireless search for The Perfect Tree. Occasionally, a child or two would come and huddle with me and my tree (with whom, by this time, I had bonded), but they would soon scamper off again.

Talk about a Fun Family Outing!

My True Love was completely redeemed when he released me from Tree Duty and suggested that the girls and I go warm up in the van while he and Jonathan continued to tree shop.

“Just pick a tree and buy it,” I said. “I don’t care what it looks like.”

ON THE SIXTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, My True Love and I sat admiring the absolutely perfect Christmas tree that he had purchased the day before. No matter that I had exposed myself to potential frostbite and psychological damage while standing guard over an ultimately rejected tree the day before. I couldn’t deny that My True Love had single-handedly unearthed the only perfectly beautiful tree in Home Depot’s lot.

“This is our most beautiful Christmas tree ever,” he said.

He says that every year.

ON THE SEVENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, My True Love insisted upon sharing a bottle of champagne before bed, despite the fact that I was extremely short on sleep and fighting an upper respiratory infection. To be honest, I was much more interested in passing out underneath the down comforter (alone), but when he flashes that boyish grin, I’m a goner. So I sat huddled by the space heater, sipping champagne and wondering if I should be mixing it with the cough medicine I’d just guzzled.

I’m sure that Eric is now fully aware that there is absolutely nothing romantic about sipping champagne with a sniffling zombie. There wasn’t even any Christmas music playing (and I didn’t slip out of my nice, warm jammies, either). The only thing he “got” was a half-hearted goodnight kiss.

ON THE EIGHTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS I had a migraine.

ON THE NINTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, My True Love drove me to the doctor’s to ascertain whether the brain-splitting pain I’d experienced the day before had actually been vascular instead of muscular. He even came into the examining room with me (something that hasn’t occurred since my last ultrasound five years ago).

“Did you drink any wine?” asked the doctor.

“Champagne,” I replied.

Well, wouldn’t you know! It’s a very bad idea to drink alcohol when you’re short on sleep because it can lead to a migraine. You would think that Eric might have squirmed a little bit at this point, but I couldn’t detect any movement from his corner.

“And how long have your parents been visiting?” was the next question.

“Since the first,” I replied, and then I caught her drift. “Oh, but that’s not stressful!” I assured her. Honestly – did she think I couldn’t handle a couple of weeks of houseguests?

Silly me. Even “good” stress can leave its mark on us – in my case, in the form of my very first migraine.

I could hardly wait to go back home and say, “Well, Mom, you’ve given me a migraine!” (I didn’t say it.)

The trip downtown was worth it, though. Not only did I get some super-duper migraine medicine in case there’s a “next time,” I got a nice brunch out with my sweetheart. And it was much more romantic than our late-night champagne by the space heater.

ON THE TENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, My True Love and I shuttled our children, my parents, and his sister in two separate vehicles to our town’s annual “Dickens of a Christmas” on Main Street. It was cold, gray, and rainy, and Eric thought that the weather was “just perfect” for our Dickens experience. (I’m not sure how he would know that, since he’s never read a single Dickens novel in his life.)

It’s a good thing that Eric’s sister was in the BMW with him instead of me, because he started the morning in a rather cantankerous mood (in preparation for meeting Scrooge, perhaps). By the time we were ready to leave, he had banned Jonathan from the bimmer because of alleged dog poop on Jonathan’s boots (sure, bring the poopy boots into my van – it already stinks anyway) and had completely lost patience with Spencer, who was crying because he had dropped his mitten.

“Should I slap him for you?” asked my efficient sister-in-law. (I don’t have to tell you what my answer was.)

While strolling the wet streets of Franklin, My True Love turned around and said, “Ah! Just like a real day in London!” (I’m not sure how he would know that, since he’s never been to London in his life.)

The highlight of Eric’s day was shouting, “Merry Christmas!” to Scrooge, who came back with his classic-yet-too-predictable, “Humbug!” I even had them pose for a picture together (my dad, never one to be upstaged, squeezed into the shot at the last moment). The highlight of my day was sitting down with a nice, hot cup of coffee in the corner Starbucks.

ON THE ELEVENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, My True Love got back from a Titan’s game in the nick of time for our pre-Christmas gift exchange with my parents. He looked absolutely horrible – wind-burned, glassy-eyed, and hat-headed. Halfway through our black bean dip and tiny cucumber sandwiches, I realized that Eric wasn’t showing any signs of shutting up about the football game – and my dad wasn’t helping matters. There isn’t anything remotely Christmas-y about quarterbacks and first downs, and I was, quite frankly, ready to shove my husband behind his perfect Christmas tree (the most beautiful one we’ve ever had).

He was fortunately distracted by the extremely loud, remote-control bulldozer that Spencer received from my parents. I figured that if I just let Spencer play with it on the floor in front of Eric, I would only have to watch Eric’s lips moving if he decided to start up again.

(I hate football. I really, really hate football…)

ON THE TWELFTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS, My True Love promised to make his gourmet pizza for dinner, while I frantically finished up this week’s Ezine article. Since it’s a little after 2:00 and he still hasn’t emerged from his office to run out and purchase the garlic and cheese, I’m thinking we might end up ordering out. But at least he’s stopped talking about the game.

There are clearly more than twelve days of Christmas. Don’t you wish you could hear what’s going to happen next?