25 Years of Christmases. I’ve learned a few things;)

We are a pretty progressive couple. We both work, we both do housework, he does most of the cooking, I’m better at paying the bills . . in other words, we’re normal. Our division of labor has been negotiated and we’ve worked hard to ensure that nobody here is getting a raw deal. Yes, he cleans the toilets, but I handle orthodontist appointments and giving birth, so it all works out.

I had to have this snowman. HAD. TO. HAVE. HIM.

But something strange happens every year at Christmas.

It’s mostly all me.

And it’s truly my own fault. I enjoy Christmas like nobody’s business. I revel in it all –  in all it’s Bing Crosby, Home Alone, and dare I say, Christmas in Connecticut glory (if you know that movie that’s actually a funny example since it was all about the illusion of a perfect family Christmas).

I want curls on packages to be 4 in long. I want the best present for each child. I want to spend FAR more money than he’s comfortable with. And I want the house to be sparkling clean for all the neighbors that might stop by with goodies.

None of this is important to my husband.

The best husband in the world. Who knows to just get out of my way at Christmas.

He would love to help more. If I would let him. But if I let him wrap gifts, they would end up looking like a malled mess with a whole row of tape attached. It’s just not his thing. We do go shopping together every year and out to lunch where he pretends he’s into it just to be able to spend time with me. And I LOVE that.

He would love to bake. But I insist on making sugar cookies from scratch using the very complicated Martha Stewart recipe and icing in layers. IN LAYERS.

This is my serious baking face. I don’t play.

I went all Brene Brown for a few years and try to let go of my perfectionism, but all I got was messy gifts, sloppy cookies and a lopsided Christmas tree. And something was just missing for me.

I know it’s wrong, I really do, but I don’t drink to excess, I don’t yell at my kids (much) and I adore my family. I deeply love Jesus and I get what it’s really all about.

But THIS is my thing. I actually love it. Every carefully chosen and beautifully wrapped piece of it. Every overly fretted over gift, every perfectly timed holiday meal, every beautifully created mantle. There’s something about celebrating the birth of Christ that truly makes me want to lavish beautiful things on the people I love, and yes, even on myself. And Christmas morning when it’s all over, he will look at me and be truly happy and will beam over how I manage to do it all. And I will agree with him. I just don’t know how I do it;).

So I won’t be a martyr and I won’t resent my sweet man. Because pretty soon it will be tax time.

And that’s HIS gig.

Happy running. And Merry Christmas.

Jen