The other day Janice asked me if we were going to get a Christmas tree. This resulted in a burst of emotional turmoil. Emotional turmoil is when your emotions bounce erratically and emphatically around your insides, like someone put a cement block in your emotional dryer and hit “Start.” It’s tempting to stand back and wait until it unplugs itself but I’ve been told that smart people throw themselves on the dryer and start wrestling with it without delay. I guess this is because if it bounces around too long, your emotional dryer will fly to pieces and you’ll become a psychopath or something. Either way, it’s best not to put a cement block in your dryer in the first place.
Of course, other people throw cement blocks in your dryer willy nilly without any hesitation whatsoever. But let’s be honest, it’s not always other people’s fault. My sin nature is leering at passerby’s from behind a huge pile of cement blocks encouraging people to use them. “Three throws for a dollar! Everyone wins a prize! Here sir, try anger. That always gives a good show. Careful putting it in there, it’s pretty heavy! Good job! Whoa! Look at that dryer bounce around! Step back! She’s gonna blow!” And then my sin nature cackles and slaps his knee in mirth as I self destruct.
But today the subject of Christmas trees provided only a mild imbalance, a condition known as indecision, which can also lead to self destruction but usually at a slower pace.
On one hand, I was lazy and getting a Christmas tree required me to do more than I was at the moment. On the other hand, I do like the festive spirit and smells that a fresh fir brings to a room. On the other hand, I didn’t want to inadvertently participate in some ancient Pagan ritual. On the other hand, no one seems to have problems with evergreen wreaths, runners, and centerpieces, only evergreen products in the form of trees, so I’m not sure we obey the spirit of the thing anyway. Also, if I bought a cheap Christmas tree and made some of our own ornaments (which the kids love to do), the virtue of frugality might offset any residual paganism. Plus, I always liked Christmas trees just because they’re beautiful. On the other hand, they’re also sticky and I hate sticky fingers. I hate having pine needles in the carpet for days. They’re also pretty flammable if you forget to water them – which I usually do. So I might as well stack barrels of gunpowder in the corner of the room and wrap them in the cheapest string of hot little lights that a factory in China can produce. On the other hand, Christmas trees are much cheaper than barrels of gunpowder. Also, this is our last Christmas in the States for who knows how long and where we’re going, evergreens are harder to find than bilingual unicorns so maybe…
“Well??” Janice was looking at me with accusing eyes, meaning I was taking too long to make a decision. She reasoned with me. “The longer we wait to get one, the less time we have to enjoy it.”
Yea, that makes sense, I thought, the longer we have it, the less it costs per day to enjoy it. In fact, every moment I don’t have a tree it’s costing me more money. Why, I’m wasting money just sitting here thinking about it! I threw Adi and Elliot in the van and went to see what Rural King had in their parking lot. We were going to be festive and merry!
Rural King had seven and a half trees left, all scattered around and lying sideways in the parking lot. Oddly enough, people didn’t leave the best trees for last. It looked like a lumberjack made a few bad decisions. Maybe he was still lying under a tree somewhere sleeping off his hangover. I quickly put together a committee and starting presenting trees to them.
“How about this one,” I’d say, holding it up so Adi and Elliot could get a good look at it.
Elliot glanced at it and laughed. “No, not that one daddy!” He laughed again, tickled to think that any person in their sane mind would pick that tree.
I picked up another, brushed the gravel out of it, and presented it with a flourish. “This one?”
“Yes!” Elliot was enthusiastic about this one even though it closely resembled the last one. The trees were probably siblings. In fact, all the trees in the parking lot looked to be relatives from one very strange family tree.
This one, however, didn’t have Adi’s approval. “But Daddy, this one isn’t pretty,” she said.
I grumbled and walked to the next one and repeated the procedure. This one Adi liked, even though it looked the same as the last tree. This meant that Elliot should have liked it too but sadly he did not. The kids were filling my emotional dryer with cement blocks. I mentally unloaded it by sighing heavily and rolling my eyes. I kicked that tree to the side and drug another weary specimen upright.
“Oooh!” I said, priming the pump of acceptance, “this one is furry and green! Also, if you like this one we’ll go eat popcorn and look at baby chicks.” Rural King sells baby chicks and hands out free popcorn. I’m not sure the kids realize we could buy the baby chicks. They just think it’s another petting zoo, which is fine by me. It was just another way to get more value from my tree purchase.
They both agreed that popcorn would be yummy and, coincidentally, that this tree was splendid. The tree was strapped to the van with much rejoicing. The kids were also kind of happy about it.
As we set up the tree, Adi was singing to herself and handing me handmade ornaments that she painted herself. She giggled with delight as I tried to space them out on the tree. It is interesting to note that happiness can also unbalance your emotional dryer. Indeed, some of the best moments in life are when you feel you’ll explode with happiness. I’m not sure I was going to explode at that moment but I was aware of some mild euphoria taking effect. Parenthood is an emotional roller coaster.
Although the tree has been set up, it’ll never actually be set up because we have a toddler in the house. Oliver really enjoys throwing things and Christmas tree ornaments are perfectly shaped, glittery, aerodynamic ammunition that cannot be resisted, kind of like little boys with slingshots can’t resist walnuts. Ornaments are hurled around our house like boulders from an invading army’s catapults.
But it’s not just ornaments. Oliver learned to walk just a few weeks ago and now he’s already climbing onto the kitchen table and throwing everything on the floor, like a thief stuffing his bag with money from the cash register as fast as he can before he gets caught. He’s a danger to himself but more so to everything else. Pens, broccoli, cups of water, spoons, matchbox cars, toothbrushes, cast iron skillets, power saws, and dining room chairs all get hurled as far as possible. And, since Oliver is kind of sick right now, even boogers are being deposited around the house, much to Elliot’s dismay.
While I’d say I have an average amount of snot repulsion, Janice patrols the house for it on a seek and destroy mission. Our children have picked up on this. Whenever Elliot sees snot underneath Oliver’s nose, whether it’s real or just imaginary, he’ll yell “snot rocket!”at the top of his lungs, like a tornado siren warning us of danger. Then he’ll bust into a reckless sprint for the nearest box of tissues or roll of toilet paper, crashing over toys, siblings, and furniture. Then he’ll wipe Oliver’s nose for him, which sounds helpful except that Elliot’s preferred method is to wrap Oliver’s head in three feet of toilet paper and then apply pressure like he’s trying to absorb coffee from an expensive rug. Most people don’t like being suffocated and Oliver is no exception. Oliver thrashes and screams as his big brother wrestles the snot off his face.
“Hold still!” Elliot will scream in Oliver’s ear as he squeezes harder and laughs – like any one in their sane mind would care if their nose is wiped! Haha! Oliver is so funny! Then he runs off and plays with random household items.
Elliot has a big imagination, which sounds good but it can be irritating. Let me explain. Last year, right before his birthday, we found ourselves hanging out a cabin. This cabin had a little busted up Buzz Lightyear action figure in the toy chest and you would’ve thought Elliot had found his dearest friend. He didn’t even know who Buzz Lightyear was but he had wings and a jet pack so Elliot liked him right away. He had no time to eat, sleep, or even perform bodily functions because he was having so many imaginary adventures with Buzz Lightyear. Saying goodbye to Buzz was hard but I had formulated a plan. Elliot’s birthday was coming up and I had just purchased an even better Buzz Lightyear on Amazon. It had all the bells and whistles. I finally got him something I knew he’d like! I was excited to give it to him.
Fast forward a year or so to this morning when I dumped Buzz, along with other toys suffering from acute loneliness, into a bin in the basement. The basement bin is like Florida for our toys. They go there to retire and wait their turn to go to the land beyond; either Goodwill or the landfill. I looked at Buzz. I felt a cement block being loaded into my emotional dryer again. Wings. Jet packs. Laser sound effects. Yet here my perfect present was forgotten while Elliot was upstairs at that very moment playing with potato bag clips. I know because there were several random bags lying open on the kitchen counter. In fact, one of his favorite toys right now is the front half of our cordless vacuum. I guess it looks vaguely like a rocket. Now we have to hunt down parts for the vacuum and assemble it before we can even use it.
So what to buy him for Christmas? Paper clips? A stapler? His own egg beater? Maybe I’ll take him to the city dump and let him pick whatever junk he wants. He’d love that.
Then again, probably the only thing Elliot would find at the dump would be some sort of virus. My kids love viruses. It’s their favorite thing to play with and they pass them around like trading cards by licking doorknobs or spitting on each other. Every day I’m surprised by how bad my kids are at making decisions. Someone should teach them better. Maybe I’ll check and see if Janice is done washing the dishes. Maybe she has time to start teaching the kids a thing or two. Of course, every time I bring up a flaw in our children’s characters, Janice traces it back to my genetics. “Your kids are just like you,” she’ll say. I guess imperfection is a genetic trait. Maybe I’ll just try to teach them myself. Of course, they’re sick right now so I’ll wait until they get better, then we’ll really do some learning.
Elliot’s been sicker than Adi and I view this as the mercy of God. Adi doesn’t suffer quietly. Elliot, as long as you don’t take his potato bag clips or vacuum cleaner parts from him, will suffer quietly through any plague, looking forlorn and invoking pity. Adi wants you to join her in her suffering. She prefers to use non-verbal cues, such as continual, long term, low grade moaning, to bring you into her misery experience. And she won’t tell you how to fix it. You have to figure that out by lavishing random acts of love on her until one of them works. It’s a lot of work and with each failed act of lavish love, the lavishness diminishes, quite rapidly. If the level of lavishness was plotted on a chart, it would look like an ocean liner hit an iceberg. Level for a while, then a catastrophic drop to the bottom of the ocean. It’s at that point that I storm into the room and throw a bottle of children’s Motrin at her and storm out, stuffing toilet paper in my ears so I can’t hear the moaning.
A few days later we’ll be at the store and Adi will forget how to say the word “remind” and will instead say something like, “Mommy, I needed to rememberize you to get toilet paper.” And wouldn’t you know it, she’s the cutest girl in the world. Parenting is an emotional rollercoaster. Sometimes all you can do is scream and throw your hands up in the air.
Until next time,
Josh
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