I’ve already blogged about how much I hate Christmas shopping. This post is to brag that my shopping is completed—and most of the gifts wrapped. Instead of feeling elated, I have this nagging feeling that I’ve forgotten somebody—and twice I’ve remembered who. I really should have made a master list of gifts and giftees as I wrapped. Trusting to memory will likely prove embarrassing to me and disappointing to a near and dear one.
This year we’ll be spending the holidays with our sons in Seattle—and some of that time, I suspect, will be with their extended family. Will we be exchanging gifts with their in-laws? Should I bring something for them? What? Of course it would do no good to ask our sons. Men just don’t get things like reciprocal gift-giving. Testosterone must be a real blessing.
Not spending Christmas at home this year raises the question of tree or no tree. My first impulse was to just buy a couple of poinsettias and call it good. It’s not that I’m a Grinch or anything. I actually like Christmas. What I don’t like is decorating. I must have been distracted when some of the feminine genes were passed around. Although I received enough femininity to bear five children and nurture them adequately enough for all to attain adulthood, I really lost out on important feminine traits like sewing, enjoying handicrafts, and creating artistic holiday displays.
I think I can get around putting up the decorations this year by letting the grandkids trim the tree when they come to celebrate a birthday next week. Now, if I could just figure out a way to rope somebody else into untrimming, wrapping, boxing, and cleaning up the whole mess afterwards.
Hmm, maybe I am a Grinch, after all.