You Really Didn't Have To

Before we were married I made you cancel the layaway on the diamond engagement ring you had so carefully chosen, the one with the pretty leaf pattern in two-tone gold.

It made practical sense, under the circumstances. The non-profit you were working for had gone bankrupt and suddenly closed -- your last paycheck had bounced. After that we were both juggling part time jobs with no health insurance. And then we found out I was pregnant. Surprise!

A diamond ring didn't seem so important to me, under those circumstances.

So we were married in the courthouse, with no pomp, and no rings at all. And we carried on with none until a couple of months later, when I snuck into a store without you and I bought a matched set of plain wedding bands in silver as a surprise.

Through the years of our marriage since then, we haven't found much time to mark our romance with ceremony . The holidays and anniversaries I remember best are the ones we spent turned all upside-down -- the Christmas we spent unpacking boxes in our new house, the Mother's Day we spent repairing a storm-torn gutter. The birthday I spent at your grandmother's memorial service.

A few days ago I asked you what you wanted to do for Valentine's Day and you shrugged and looked guilty and said "I hadn't really thought about it much yet." And I wasn't surprised because -- let's face it -- I know and you know you buy gifts at the last minute, and you couldn't remember to make a restaurant reservation a week in advance if your life depended on it.

But the truth was, I hadn't really thought about what to do on Valentine's Day much yet, either.

There was a time when I would feel a slight pang of jealousy when I watched a bride walk down an aisle full of flowers in a beautiful gown. There was a time when I felt a little envy when some couple we knew told us about their romantic anniversary getaway. There was a time when I cared about flowers and fancy dinners on Valentine's Day. But I don't anymore.

Because Saturday you folded all the laundry while I read email, even though I hadn't asked you to.

Because you fold my clothes more neatly than I do.

Because Sunday when you were at the grocery store without me you bought me marinara sauce with portobello mushrooms and wine even though you don't really like portobellos or wine, either. And then you served it with dinner.

Because you bought me a box of chocolates that had only dark chocolate in it.

Because you gave our son his bath last night and read his story even though he really wanted me to read his story and we both knew he would whine about you doing it instead, so I could lay down on the sofa, because I was tired.

Because even though we said in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live, and believed it, by all stereotypes and cold hard statistics, this crazy, met-too-young, married-too-soon, stressed-too-often relationship of ours should never have lasted this long. Not through three homes and two cars and seven job changes and six birthdays of a decidedly not-neurotypical child.

And yet, here you are, still, remembering that I don't like milk chocolate. Folding my jeans.

Dinner out and roses would be a nice gift, one of these February 14ths. But a present like that would be a very little thing compared to the thousands of simpler, mundane, yet much more important everyday gifts you have given me over the years.

That diamond ring we wanted once might be nice to have, someday, too. But if you ever get around to getting me one, it had better look nice next to my old scratched and dented silver wedding band. Because I'm not taking that off.

The Most Beautiful Christmas Tree Ever

So, I was having a Twitter conversation with Gregg and Rebecca earlier today about Christmas trees. Gregg seems to be under the impression that the Christmas tree he just finished decorating tonight in his house is the Most Beautiful Christmas Tree Ever. I hated to tell him he was wrong. Then Rebecca informed me that her favorite Christmas tree, was, in fact, the Most Beautiful Ever. Well, you decide!

That year, my sister and I were living with our mother in a small rented house in a grittier part of the suburbs. My parents had divorced years earlier. My mother had gone back to school, to earn her degree. My father was not making child support payments.

One evening after dinner, several weeks before Christmas, my mother told my sister and me she had something important to talk to us about.

"I don't think we'll be able to have a tree this year. But we'll still have Christmas, and presents. If it's between a tree and presents, I'd rather be able to buy you presents. You'd rather have presents than a tree, right?" She didn't look us in the eyes when she said it.

"But, it's not Christmas without a tree," I said. "Can't we just cut one down somewhere? In a forest or something?"

"That's against the law, if it's not your land," my mother said.

"Santa will bring us a tree," my little sister chimed. "If we ask for one, he'll bring it." Her eyes shone with the confidence of a true believer. I was two years older. Disillusioned. But how could anyone with a beating heart stand to disappoint such hope?

"I'll get us a tree," I said, suddenly convinced it was possible.

"Do you have money hidden somewhere I don't know about?" My mother joked.

"No. But I'll get a tree anyway. I'll find a way." I straightened my shoulders under the weight of this new responsibility. Tree Bringer. Saver of Christmas. Why not? After all, I was nearly ten.

That night I lay awake in my bed, trying to think of a plan. Could I find a tree to cut down someplace, after all? Someplace where it wasn't illegal? My mother would almost certainly be angry that I'd done it. And I wasn't sure where I would get an axe.

I'd heard that sometimes tree lots would give away their leftover scraggly trees on Christmas Eve. Maybe we could convince one to give us one. But that didn't seem like the best plan— leaving it all 'till the last minute. What if I couldn't find a generous lot owner in time?

Could I get a job cutting down weeds or clearing snow somewhere in the neighborhood that would earn enough money to buy a tree? I didn't think I could make enough money in time. I didn't know my neighbors very well yet— we'd only just recently moved into the neighborhood— but my grandmother had once paid me 50 cents for a whole afternoon of weeding in her garden, and a family friend once had paid me a dollar to rake a whole yard. Minimum wage didn't apply to kids doing odd jobs for family and neighbors. But I'd need at least twenty dollars to buy a Christmas tree.

Perhaps I could find someone who was giving away trees to worthy families, and write an essay convincing them to give us one. I was good at writing essays to win things. I'd won several certificates in school. Though, I'd never been able to win my mother roses on Mother's Day in the Mother's Day essay contest. That was a black mark on my record, to be sure. What if I failed again this time?

The next morning, as I brushed my teeth and dressed to the sounds of our little radio, the answer materialized right before my ears. The local radio station I had tuned to was having a contest. Every couple of days, at a random time, I heard a deejay explain, the station would ask listeners to call in. The tenth caller each time would win a Christmas tree.

On the way in to school, before my mother could turn on her usual station, I grabbed the dial and twisted it. "We can't listen to NPR," I said. "I have to listen to Y-98. They're having a contest to win a Christmas tree, and I'm going to win it."

"How could you possibly call in to a radio station from a moving car?" My mother rolled her eyes. "Do you expect me to pull over somewhere and find you a payphone?" She turned the dial back to NPR.

"But I might miss some rules to the contest!" I said. "I'n not sure I heard everything right when they talked about it this morning. I was brushing my teeth during part of it."

"Jaelithe," my mother said, quite serious now, "You are almost certainly not going to win a radio contest. Even if you happen to be listening at the right time, when the deejay asks people to call, every time you try to call in, the line will be busy, because hundreds of other people who were listening will be calling in, too. Even if you do get through, it will be nearly impossible for you to be the tenth caller. I don't want you to get your hopes up over something that is nearly impossible."

"I will win it, if I try hard enough," I replied, and sat in stony silence during the rest of the short ride to school, scowling at Bob Edwards's polished NPR voice.

Every afternoon, the minute I came home from school, I turned on the radio and listened for call-in instructions for the contest. I kept the radio on while I ate, while I did my chores, while I did my homework. Every morning, I woke up early, before the rest of my family, and turned on the radio, keeping the volume as low as possible so as not to wake my mother, who often stayed up late studying and writing papers for class, and would be very annoyed if I ever woke her up early.

Watching me listen to the radio intently day and night, my mother frequently sighed and rolled her eyes. But she didn't ask me to turn it off.

Twice I heard an announcer ask listeners to call in for the contest, and leapt to the phone to dial the number which I had carefully memorized, but only got a busy signal, over and over again as I hung up the phone and pushed redial.

I was not discouraged. I would win that tree. It was necessary. I was the Tree Bringer.

Finally, one morning, before dawn, as the rest of the household slept, I heard the deejay announce another call-in. I scrambled to the kitchen as quickly as I could, and snatched the phone. I called the number.

The phone rang.

This was it.

I stretched the phone cord as far as it would reach, and knocked on my mother's bedroom door. "Mom!" I hissed. "Wake up! I'm on the phone for the contest! It's ringing! They might answer any second!" I knew that as a minor child, I could not actually give the radio station my own information as a contest winner. It would have to be my mother.

"What time is it?" my mother groaned. "Go back to bed!"

"But Mom, the contest! The tree!"

"Will you stop with the contest already? The contest! I'm going back to sleep!"

Painfully discouraged, I went back into the kitchen. I couldn't believe the phone had been ringing so long. It seemed like I'd been on the line for an eternity. Had I called the wrong number? Was the station already on the phone with the winner? Why wasn't anyone answering? Then,

"Hello! You're our tenth caller!"

I had done it.

Despite my days-held fervent belief that I would win the contest, I still somehow managed to be stunned.

My mother was still in her room.

"Hello? Caller?"

I had to come up with a new plan.

"Hello?"

"Hi! Hi there! Sorry. Bad connection. I'm the tenth caller? I can't believe it! This is great! Did I win the tree?" I tried to make my voice sound as adult as possible.

"Yes! You've won the tree! Please turn your radio off."

"Oh!"

I shut off the radio.

"So, what's your name?"

It was working! They believed me!

"I'm Diana," I said. It was my mother's name.

They asked for more information. My phone number. My address. I gave it flawlessly. They really thought I was a grown up! I had really won the tree! Without anyone's help! This was fantastic!

"So, Diana, we just need one more thing for you for tax purposes. What's your social security number?"

What was my what?

I certainly didn't know my mother's social security number.

"Uh, just a minute. Can you, uh, please hang on a minute? Someone is asking me something," I lied, and set the phone gently on the kitchen counter, and ran full tilt into my mother's room.

"Momwakeupwakeup OH WAKE UP NOW! It's an EMERGENCY I'vewonthecontestwiththetree the tree the tree I'VE WON THE TREE and because YOU WOULDN'T WAKE UP well you see I sort of pretended to be you and and I gave your name and everything and they thought I WAS you but now now now they want your social security number and I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE NUMBER IS!"

How my mother deciphered this message in time while still being half-asleep, I will never know.

She picked up the phone in her room, and motioned to me to hang up the phone in the kitchen and shut the door.

When she came out, she said, "I had to tell them the truth, that it wasn't really me on the phone at first. You aren't so good at lying, you know."

"Oh," I said.

"But, I told them I'd given you permission to call on my behalf because you were really excited about it. They thought you were cute. They said we could still have the tree."

"Oh!" I said.

My mother drove to the station to pick up the prize. It wasn't a real live tree, like I thought it would be. It was a gift certificate to buy a tree from a local lot. I was disappointed, but my mother said, "It's better this way. We get to pick which one we want. Anyway, where on earth would they keep a bunch of Christmas trees at a radio station?"

The gift certificate was for $50. My mother told me that was more than she'd ever spent on a tree in her entire life.

We bought a fir tree.

It was the first time we had ever bought a fir tree, with long, slender, flexible needles that looked so much fancier than the stubby, pitchy ones on a spruce.

The moment it entered our house, the tree filled our house with a scent that smelled to me of winter, and mountains, and greenness, and richness, and clean things.

The branches were so lush with healthy, green needles you couldn't see the trunk. The tree was as perfectly conical and symmetrical as any I'd ever seen in a painting on a Christmas card. It barely fit through our front door. It seemed to take up half our shabby living room. The top brushed the ceiling. We didn't have enough lights or ornaments in our shoddy supply of Christmas decorations to even begin cover it. But it needed none of them.

It was the most beautiful Christmas tree I'd ever seen.

"Santa Claus works in mysterious ways," my sister said.

Do you have a story to tell about your Perfect Christmas Tree? Write a post about it before Christmas Day, email me the link or leave it in the comments, and I'll paste it here. It seems that Gregg, Rebecca and I have sort of accidentally started a holiday meme. Well, heck. It's December.

Rebecca's Perfect Tree Story

Kim's Perfect Tree Story

Isaac's Valentine

Isaac and I were making Valentine's Day cookies yesterday. He cut out a heart-shaped one and covered it mostly in sparkly red sprinkles. "This one is for Daddy," he said. He cut another heart-shaped cookie and covered it in mostly in multi-colored dots. "This one is for you, Mommy," he said.

And then, with the last of the dough, he made a round cookie, bigger than all the rest, shaping by hand. He piled it high with sprinkles of every kind.



"This one is special for Cammy," he said.



Indeed!

In Which I Come Out to the Internet as a Comic Book Geek, Part II, with Pictures

What? You want to take my picture in this costume you made for me? You want me to stand still, look at the camera, and smile so you can get a good shot? Uh, right.



Did you forget who you dressed me up as already?




Wait a minute-- what is this contraption?



I guess even The Flash will sit still for a loud, brightly colored electronic toy.

In Which I Come Out to the Internet as a Comic Book Geek

I would so show you photos of my son dressed up as The Flash, in a Halloween costume I made for him, with my own hands. I would totally show you right here, right now.

But Blogger won't let me upload any photos today. I have tried several times at different points in the day. No dice.

You're on my list, Blogger. Do you hear me? ON MY LIST. Right underneath home inspectors who lose your email address and phone number and therefore do not send you the rather significant, immediate-attention-requiring results of radon tests on your potential new home, but instead, just casually give them to your real estate agent who, not realizing you the inspectors never sent you said results, doesn't tell you about them either for three whole days.

Anyway, if you want to see pics of the cutest Flash EVER, and find out what comic book character I dressed up as, you'll just have to click the link to my Flickr account in the sidebar for now.

What Have I Gotten Myself Into?

So, I am sewing several components of my son's, my husband's, and my Halloween costumes this year.

I forgot one thing, though.

I suck at sewing!

I also do not own a sewing machine. So that means I have to sew everything by hand. With my suckitudinous sewing skills.

Minor technicalities, right? Right?

My Mother Would Be Proud

Today I went to a fabric store looking for fabric for my family's Halloween costumes. I found just the sort of fabric I was looking for to use in two of the three costumes, on sale for half price. Exactly the yardage I needed was all that remained on the bolt.

I walked into a resale store next door looking for a cabinet to store some of my husband's DJ equipment in-- something I could refinish to look decent. I didn't find anything suitable, but I did find two brand-name, never-worn skirts in my size with the original store sales tags still on them, on clearance for 99 cents each.

Later, after dinner, I went to the mall so Isaac could play with the Thomas the Tank Engine tracks at the bookstore. While my husband watched my son play with the trains, I wandered into a favorite store of mine to browse for a birthday gift for my sister. I can't tell you what I bought there, and I can't tell you how much it cost, because my sister knows this URL. But let's just say-- 75% off? Oh, yes. It was so cheap I feel like I have to buy her something else, too!

Yes, the gods of discount shopping were smiling heartily upon me today.

Tomorrow, I am going house shopping.

Shopping gods, do you like cheesecake?

Hoppy Easter

Last night at our house the Easter Bunny stayed up past midnight making four-bean salad and perfectly swirled deviled eggs to take to the in-laws' Easter lunch. Then the Easter Bunny had to get up twice in the middle of the night to rock a little bunny who was having night terrors back to sleep.

Then the Easter Bunny got up at 6:00 in the morning, before anyone else, to arrange and display an easter basket, make special chocolate pancakes with whipped cream for the whole family for breakfast (a dish that the Easter Bunny of course knew the picky boy who lives here would not actually eat, but that the Easter Bunny made anyway because the Easter Bunny, like all mythical gift-giving beings, lives in hope). And then everyone else woke up. And then the Easter Bunny had to make ambrosia to take to the in-laws' also.

And then the Easter Bunny had to put on high heels and makeup and a floral dress and pearls and try to be chipper and sweet to people at all sorts of parties for the rest of the day.

And when the Easter Bunny finally got home and got to take off the damned heels and sit down, when the Easter Bunny reflected upon the day, the Easter Bunny was happy.

Because a little boy had a great time.

This is how I know the real Easter Bunny is a girl-bunny. And a mom.

(Well, that and the laying eggs bit. I mean, a bunny laying colored eggs is a stretch, sure, but a BOY bunny laying eggs? That's just impossible).