The husband and I have been butting heads all Christmas season it seems. He wants to do more and more and more than I think is even necessary. So when my mother and I discussed whether we were going to do stockings for the adults this year (something the husband and I normally take care of), we figured we’d save some money and not bother with them. It isn’t as if they are full of things we all desperately need, or even that stockings are that important for the adults. It’s just something we normally do, and didn’t think we needed to continue to do.
I told the husband we were going to skip stockings for the adults this year.
And he flipped. Now, when I say “flipped” for the husband’s reactions, it means he gave me Eyebrow of Doom, growled a bit, and informed me that the foot was down and the stockings were happening.
Fine. The stockings are happening.
And then I spoke to a friend, who informed me in the nicest way possible that I was basically being an inconsiderate biatch.
You took a man with none of this. No real family life. No traditions. None of it, and you gave him all of that. You don’t get to take it back.
It made me stop and think. All these little things we do during the holidays that have become just a thing to me, mean something to him. They mean something, because we took him in. We made him part of our family. We drug him through our little traditions, and now he is defending them. He’s defending them because he’s got the caveman personality. This is his family, his Christmas. He’s the defender on the wall of our little one-story castle.
And here I’ve been, poking holes at it with my dull little javelin.
We didn’t make him part of this.
No. The gift my husband gave me is that he made all this something that was finally whole.