Decorating becomes disaster

In normal families, decorating for Christmas is a joyous activity. At least, that's how it appears on television.

A light snow falls gently outside the living-room window as Mother serves eggnog and freshly baked cookies to the family. Father smiles at his brood lovingly, leaning back in his chair to watch the scene unfolding before him. Brother carefully places the ornament he made in school on the perfect branch. And, finally, Sister is lifted up to put the angel on the tippy top.

That's not exactly how things go around the old Hall place.

The problem has its roots in my childhood. My parents didn't celebrate Christmas due to religious reasons, but don't cry for me, Cape Girardeau. Obviously, I turned out completely normal.

So, since my Christmases usually consisted of cleaning the house and eating turkey-based hot dogs, there aren't the fond childhood memories that most people have.

These days, I like the way the holidays lead to renewing acquaintances. I like the special cookies and candy. I especially like the decorations. But otherwise, I'd prefer to spread my good tidings of comfort and joy throughout the year, instead of lumping it into one extremely stressful, extremely cold month that finds me sliding across parking lots to buy bubble bath and lots of other stuff that probably won't be used. (That's why I've primarily started giving adult beverages. Everyone can use a couple of those right about now.)

The Other Half is completely the opposite. He loves everything about Christmas. Since we married seven years ago, I've been afraid to mention there's no such thing as Santa Claus.

He doesn't care about spending -- Mr. Half is the one who plans shopping excursions in our house. Just this week, he spent four hours in area stores. Yes, he is male. Really.

Of course, he is the one who handles the Christmas decorations around our house, which consist of a million little knickknacks acquired over the years and a 6-foot-high, narrow Christmas tree suited for townhouses.

We were running a little behind this year, so the artificial tree didn't make an appearance until Sunday. And then it appeared between my favorite chair and the television.

"Uh, Swee?" I said. "I don't think it works there. Why can't we just put it in front of the window?"

"The plants are in front of the window," he said.

"Why can't we move the plants upstairs in front of the bedroom window?" I asked.

"Because my weight set is there."

"Why can't we move that?"

"It's too much trouble."

That artificial tree moved to four locations in our living room before it returned to smack dab in front of my chair. The Other Half was on a rampage.

"How about here?" he huffed.

I sighed. "I can't talk about it anymore. Just put it where you want. It only lasts a month, anyway," I said.

Big mistake. I was watching television when I heard the sound of wooden beads dropping to the ground. It was a broken string of garland, yanked off the tree by The Other Half.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I'm not putting up the tree if I'm the only one who wants it," he replied.

There was no eggnog. No cookies. No lifting Sister up to place the angel. Just a pouting 32-year-old man balling up strands of white lights as fast as his hands would go.

Later, The Other Half admitted he was scared. He's afraid that Christmas isn't as special as it used to be. He's afraid that the traditions of his childhood are fading.

I hugged him tight. "They say Christmas is for children," I whispered. "How about if we have a baby and make our own traditions?"

He blanched. "I'll be good!" he said.

Maybe so. But he's just getting coal from me after that statement.

Heidi Hall is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.