Welcome to the Funny Farm (5 page)

There's another song, and I think the lyrics say it well: “Oh, come let us adore him.” It's sage advice, written by someone with not only a nice sense of rhythm, but biblical priorities and no small measure of wisdom.

I'd be willing to bet it was a blonde.

9

Christmas, a Labor of Love

I
DON
'
T KNOW WHY
S
ANTA GETS ALL THE CREDIT.

After all, what family do you know in real life where the man of the house is the driving force responsible for making Christmas happen? I can't think of many. The truth is, we women carry the lion's share of the responsibility—and the privilege—of creating memorable holidays for the folks we love.

I think women shoulder the bulk of the work because a successful Christmas requires skills that come more naturally to women than to men.

Like spending massive sums of money.

And that's just for starters. Women are also better at manipulating unwieldy pieces of wrapping paper, as well as knowing the behind-the-scenes politics of all our friends so that uncomfortable combinations of people don't show up at the same Christmas party. We're also ahead when it comes to remembering the correct spelling of the names of people on our gift list, including distant relatives, bosses and coworkers, children's teachers, and even our own children. (And I only say this because, several weeks after my daughter Kaitlyn was born, I overheard her dad misspelling her name to a well-wisher on the phone!)

Pulling off the perfect Christmas also requires an understanding of the nuances of giblet gravy, an ability to whip up an angel costume in twenty minutes or less, and a mastery of the perfect pie crust. (My secret? After I remove the pie crust from the freezer, I make sure I peel off the cellophane and cardboard label before pouring in the filling.)

Women have these skills. Men don't.

This is why you can't convince me that Mrs. Claus isn't the unsung hero. Don't tell me she's not behind the scenes, coaching her husband every step of the way. I can hear her now, peering over his shoulder as he makes out the gift list: “Santa, honey, don't even THINK about giving that new garage door remote to newlywed Mrs. Jones. She's going to be much happier with the perfume. Trust me.”

I can see her following him to the sled with last-minute shopping instructions: “Target has special holiday hours, so you don't have to rush. There's a sale on Pokémon backpacks at Sears, and whatever you do, DON'T go to Bath World—this is Wednesday and senior citizens get a 10 percent discount, so the place will be crowded and you won't be able to maneuver the aisles for the walkers. Did you remember the list? Your wallet? Good. And if I'm not here when you get home, the Scotch tape is in the top left desk drawer, and wrapping paper's in the hall closet.”

I can even hear her coaching her husband as he's getting dressed on Christmas Eve: “I don't care if anyone sees you or not. The black dress socks and baseball cap are tacky. Wear something else. And don't try to tell me your red suit is dirty, because I picked it up from the cleaners just this morning.”

If you're like me, you take your role as Christmas-maker very seriously. Indeed, Christmas is upon us and right about now you and I are toting lists of about two million last-minute things that need doin' before December 25th. It's not that men and kids don't help with the planning, shopping, cooking, and decorating but, if women were removed from the picture, Christmas dinners would include tater tots and two out of three gifts would come from Home Depot.

Christmas depends on us, ladies. The success of the coming holiday is on our shoulders.

Yes, women make Christmas.

It's our labor of love.

Which makes me think of another woman, a woman for whom Christmas was a labor of love in a very real sense of the word.

Because a long time ago, there was a woman who held Christmas, not on her shoulders, but in her arms. Like you and me, she had the privilege of shaping Christmas, but it wasn't through the labor of her hands. Indeed, Christmas entered the world through the painful rending of her pregnant body, and then she held him in her arms as he slept.

As I'm rushing through the last hectic days before Christmas, it's not a bad time to remember that, as well-intentioned as they may be, my efforts don't “make” Christmas. God did that—through Mary—2,000 years ago. Which makes Christmas complete and perfect, just the way it is.

If I have any goal this December, maybe it should be to celebrate Christmas the way Mary did: By embracing the person called the Christ.

Well, that . . . and staying away from Bath World on Wednesdays.

10

The Christmas Babies

A
PORTION OF THIS COLUMN IS FOURTEEN YEARS OLD.

This is because I am including in these pages a letter I wrote to my daughter Kaitlyn in honor of our first Christmas together. She was six weeks old at the time.

The letter has never been published.

Oh, I tried to share it with friends and family one year, but there was a minor complication. Remember how, in an earlier chapter, I confessed that I'm such a procrastinator I've been known to write Christmas cards, address them to friends and family, then let the pile of envelopes sit on my den coffee table for months on end?

Well, back in '91, a copy of this letter was in each of eighty Christmas cards that eventually ended up in the trash. They ended up in the trash because it was May, and I needed the space on the coffee table to write out valentines.

Christmas is upon us and right about now you and I have To-Do lists that are a mile long. If you're like me, you'll get a lot of things done. And if you're REALLY like me, there'll be more than a few things on your list that you'll never actually accomplish. The good news is that life will go on. You'll discover that just because you didn't finish your To-Do list, it's not the end of the world as we know it. (Although if for some reason the world-as-we-know-it comes to a crashing halt on December 26, I may have to reconsider that last statement.)

It's amazing all the things that need to be done in the last days before Christmas. Even things that don't have anything to do with Christmas suddenly need to be done before Christmas. Like fixing the braided rug in my office. The threads holding the braids in a spiral have been unraveling for months, but for some unexplained, masochistic reason it didn't feel life-threatening until NOW, one week before Christmas, when I'm so stressed and busy that I don't even have time to wash my hair and shave my legs during the same shower.

Naturally, this is when I found myself looking at the rug in a crazed panic and thinking, “That rug must be repaired and it must be repaired TODAY.”

This is why I was willing to try The Shortcut.

So this morning I bypassed the needle and thread and went straight for the hot glue gun.

Actually, it worked great. The rug looks like new. Of course, I'm wondering if I was as careful as I should have been. I say this because our German shepherd walked across the rug as I was working, and he hasn't moved since.

But my point is that you and I have a lot to do right now and a lot on our minds as well.

Which is why I decided to include the following letter. It's about another woman who had a lot on her mind as well, some 2000 Christmases ago.

So here they are, fresh from mothballs, the words I penned to my own baby fourteen years ago. Consider them my Christmas gift to you, a small token from one harried woman to another. Merry Christmas to you and yours!

Dearest Kaitlyn,

Tonight I put the finishing touches on the Christmas tree—silver ribbon and a garland of red wooden beads. Then I cradled you in my arms and turned on the lights, convinced the smile that appeared on your face was from delight and not by coincidence.

And I couldn't help but think of another Christmas baby, born long ago to a mother who must have shared my enchantment with the miracle of birth.

Did she, I wondered, interpret every smile as an intimate communication, as I do now?

Did she spend hours memorizing a tiny face, searching infant eyes with her own, caressing soft round cheeks?

I picture that mother kissing sweet, rosebud lips, as I do yours. And she must have traced the curve of a turned-up nose a thousand times.

Did that mother, while cradling her baby to her breast, whisper promises and secrets, hopes and dreams? Did she tell her son—as I tell you—about sunsets and holidays, puppies and stars? Did she describe for him his earthly father? Did she tell him about God?

How she must have marveled at the grasp of five tiny fingers curled around her own and considered what wonders this infant being would accomplish when he grew tall. And as she did, did she ever whisper hopes about his future? Did she whisper promises from her past?

And when she looked down at a chubby face relaxed in sleep—with lips parted and tiny lashes resting gently on rosy cheeks—perhaps she thought about how very soon her baby would be grown and gone. And perhaps, like me, she let the tears well up in her eyes, trace a pattern down her face, and splash unhindered on a chubby hand.

This year, I have my own precious Christmas baby. And I understand, better than ever before, a mother's love for a Christmas baby long ago.

And when you are old enough to understand, I'll tell you all about that mother's baby. And I'll tell you what she couldn't have known as she swaddled, nursed, and loved him: that one day her baby would die so that mine might live. So that you might live. And of all the Christmas blessings today or yesterday, this is the greatest by far.

11

Cold Weather Sports

I
T
'
S COLD OUTSIDE.

I know it's cold outside because I happen to be visiting my folks in Colorado and, as I look out the window, I can see snow on the ground. Even back home in Texas, I hear they've had an unexpected cold spell and that the temperature's been down to twenty degrees.

When it gets chilly like this, it's only natural to find ourselves thinking about cold weather sports.