christmas trees and crusts of bread: when tradition creates tension

Our advent for today is getting our Christmas tree.

We have agreed that given the frenetic tension of our house deadlines, today is the only day we can do it.  We will do it between 11 and 1.  These are not optimal times, but we will make it work.

Daniel asks me, wisdom gained from newlywed years oozing, "What are your expectations for this event?"

I think for a moment and tell him that my expectations are always too high, but I will try to be realistic.  It would be nice to go get our tree together and get some hot chocolate on the way, and come home for enchiladas.  That's what we always do.  It's tradition.

In my mind, yes, I'm thinking snow and crowding in his truck and a long drive and being all relaxed and cozy, sure, of course I'm running the movie reel.

Ohhhh, how life is not like that.

Shouldn't I know this by now?

He didn't show up at the time we'd set.

I called and offered to pick him up.

He said "For what?"

sparks flew.

It doesn't matter. Overcome it! I tell myself. 

He says to pick him up at Menard's in an hour, he's coming, he's sorry, the drywallers were late, they pushed him behind, come pick him up in an hour.

I do.  He is working with his brother Mark.  Mark comes to me and tells me Daniel is busy.

I grind my teeth.

Do these kinds of things happen to you?

I grab some groceries.  I come back.

He isn't ready.

I wish he realized that it's no small feat to load the children and have them all excited to get our tree. 

I want to shout that my time has value too, that it's not fair to push me off, to make me wait.  The selfishness buzzes, blinds. 

He knows, I know he knows. He's trying, I know he's trying.  My heart wants to give him the benefit of the doubt, but still the frustration bubbles.

He is not out golfing.

He is working, hard, and I'm so thankful.

We end up buying our tree at Menard's.

For the sake of tradition, we buy hot chocolate from the gas station next door.

It's not idyllic.

Instead of traipsing through the forest, Eli runs down the aisles. 

 

Can you spot him?  The little bear, on the left, that's him.

 

So I get my camera out to take a picture of all of us getting the tree. 

 

battery exhausted

 

No picture.

 

I exhale.

 

My battery feels exhausted.

 

This morning we found out that we were the losing bidders on a house that we've been trying to buy for over two years. 

 

We signed papers finalizing the very last detail of Gabe's stone.

 

We applied  tried to apply for passports for our trip to South Africa. 

 

{"We only take applications until three o'clock.", says the unhelpful clerk.  "It's two-fifty-eight." I helpfully point out. We make an appointment to come back tomorrow at 10.}

 

Daniel watches his younger brother sign papers to join the Navy SEALs.

 

And in the midst of all this, in one day, . . . I just am wanting some calm, and the Christmas tree.

 

We load the tree into my van. 

 

He is going to leave.  He is going to work.  He is going to work all day long, into the night, and then go play floor hockey with his buddies and brother.

 

He forgot about the enchiladas.

 

Why do the stinkin' enchiladas matter so much?

 

They don't.

 

I feel tears push and stuff them away.

 

I shout to my heart, choose your words wisely!  I remember a quote I saw somewhere:

 

At any point, you have the power to say this  is not how the story is going to end.

 

I can nag.

 

I can send nasty texts.

 

I can justifiably play the "poor me" card.

 

I can beg for him to miss his gym night.

 

I can give him dark looks.

 

Or I can choose to end the story differently.

 

After all, it's just a tree.  We have it.  Who cares how it got transported?  The kids are thrilled.  It has tiny pine cones all over it.  They find this fascinating.

 

The enchiladas are better eaten happily at 6pm (kids + me) and at 9pm (Daniel and Mark) than together in stony awkward, hayley-won-that-round silence.

 

It's like those ridiculously enticing books from my childhood, the choose-your-own ending ones.  I could choose to make my husband's life miserable over the things that happened today.  We could argue endlessly about who was right and who was wrong.

 

Or I could put on my big-girl pants and just take a deep breath and say we're not going to end the story here.

 

It's just a tree.

 

It's just enchiladas.

 

The point to to create a happy home.

 

Tradition with an angry, bitter mama is empty, shallow, destructive. Who cares about keeping the tradition if you can't keep the peace?

 

 

What if the author of Proverbs was thinking of the holidays when he wrote:

 

better a dry crust with peace and quiet than a house full of feasting, with strife

 

(Proverbs 17:1)

 

I think my children and my man are going to be voting for the crusts of bread, every time.