Why Dads (and Moms) Love Christmas Trees

When it comes to decorating for Christmas, a Dad has three major jobs: Put up the tree, string up the lights and make sure the fridge is always stocked with an ample amount of eggnog. It's the only honeydew list my wife assembles that I look forward to. I mean it. A typical, non-Christmas honeydew list at Klems Manor looks something like this:

Dear Brian,
Please do the things on this list ASAP.
Seriously,
Your Wife

To-Dos:
—Cut the grass
—Take out the garbage
—Water the flowers (peeing on them does not count)
—Wrap up the hose when you're finished (I can't believe I have to remind you of this)
—Cut the grass (Yes I put this on here again. I know you skipped over it the first time)
—Sweep the floor
—Change the light bulbs
—Move your folded clothes from the laundry basket into your dresser (and "dresser" is not code for "floor")
—Clean the toilet
—Cut the grass (Trust me, by the time you actually finish this list, it'll need it again)

Christmas is different. Aside from the occasional bulb not working causing the entire strand to go out and getting the evil eye from neighbors because my strands are blinking at different speeds, I love hanging up the lights. And eggnog? Hell, I stare longingly at our supermarket's freezer section all year, counting down the days until the eggnog returns. The taste reminds me of sitting at my grandma's kitchen table, explaining to her why I was especially good that year so Santa would bring me Super Mario 3 (which he did!) and an elephant (which, unfortunately, he didn't).

Putting up the Christmas tree, though—well, that's my favorite holiday tradition of all. The moment it comes out of the box, the season of Christmas is finally launched. I stand it up straight and lock it into its base. The limbs hang bare momentarily, as I bend and fluff them. I wrap it in a skirt, which is unfortunate because our tree's name is Clint. Then I assemble the troops—my two daughters, whose ages combined I can count on one hand, and my wife, whose age I won't mention—and grab the boxes of ornaments that will soon bring our tree to life.

Now to understand our tree you must understand what each of us brings to the table. My wife has a box full of beautiful, handcrafted (and highly breakable) porcelain ornaments she's received every year of her life to commemorate each Christmas. A smiling angel from 1984. A Santa sleigh from 1997. A pastel reindeer from 2006. I, on the other hand, contribute a box of memories filled with Popsicle-stick stars, dried Play-Doh blobs, and a pipe-cleaner wreath, that's held together (poorly) by what I can only assume was once a piece of chewed gum. I know they sound silly, but each of these items commemorates particular Christmases of my life and is every bit as important to me as my wife's are to her. So we hang them all, allowing our tree to host a friendly mix of ornaments that have little in common. We may not have the fanciest tree or the most do-it-yourself tree, but we have a family tree—the way it should be.

Back to decorating the tree: Once the troops (my kids) are aligned and the ornaments have escaped their off-season home in our basement, we begin to unwrap and hang. This used to be a systematic process. We'd pop Home Alone in the DVD player. My wife would remove items from the box and hand them off. I'd find homes for each one. And just as big brother Buzz yells "KEVIN! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY ROOM!" I hang the last decoration—an ornament of Homer Simpson wearing a Santa hat. But now my kids were no longer interested in sitting patiently on the sidelines. They demanded playing time. They were helper elves ready to shine. So we let them.

They hung nearly everything. They hung the fancy ornaments. They hung the Popsicle-stick ornaments. Then hung Homer. They'd bolt back and forth from their Mom to the tree, tripping over each other's feet, carrying ornaments—as well as smiles—on every trip. They hung each memory with care and finished before Kevin's parents even realized they'd left him home alone.

They stepped away from the tree. Ella looked it up and down, grinning widely, impressed with her and her sister's work. Anna nodded in agreement.

"It's looks pretty!" said Ella.

"Pretty!" said Anna.

They were proud. So were we. And as my wife and I stepped away to take a look at our children's work, we put our arms around each other and smiled at our beautifully decorated Christmas tree—that only had decorations on the bottom 1/3rd of it.

*****
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You’re A Father, Charlie Brown …

The word “sacrifice” is defined as “giving up something valued for the sake of something else regarded as more important or worthy.” In biblical times, sacrifice meant giving up your most prized sheep to get in God’s good graces. During the Great Depression, it meant working degrading jobs just to feed your family. And yet neither of those compare to the unthinkable sacrifices you must make as a parent in the 21^st century.

Brittany: “Hey hun?”

Me: “Yes my lovely wife?”

Brittany: “When the baby is born, I think you should cut back on your softball playing.”

(Long pause.)

Me: “I’m leaving you.”

This scene took place right after I told Brittany about my plan to play an upcoming softball tournament. I’ve always been willing to give up a lot for the baby—partying, money, my dream of owning a pet elephant—but not softball. Never. It wasn’t until I heard this story that … well, you’ll see.

I’d like to tell you the tale of my friend, Weave, who sacrificed for his pregnant wife. We met on the softball diamonds of Lombard, Ill. back in the spring of 2002 (thanks to our mutual friend and coach, Joe). I was a young softball star in the making (stop laughing), and Weave was a big-hearted, seasoned veteran who brought his ALF bobblehead to the park each night for good luck. When asked to describe himself, he replied, “I’m the living embodiment of Charlie Brown—someone is always pulling the ball out from under me.”

His wife, Julie, also played on the team and spent most of her time scooping bad throws (from yours truly) at first base. Aside from being a gold-glover, she also swung a mighty stick and, as legend has it, once led our team in home runs—though you won’t find a single guy on the team willing to confirm this. More important, Julie is also pregnant with their first child.

Last week, Weave received an instant message from Tom (another friend):

"Want to go boo Sammy Sosa next Wednesday night at the White Sox game?" Weave, whose love of the White Sox rivals my love of the Reds, never passes up the offer to go to a game. He also never passes up the chance to boo Sammy Sosa. But after contemplating the offer for a few days, he turned it down.

“Julie always said I could go to games and such, but I just didn’t want to go,” he said. “I want to stay with her and be around as much as I can for the pregnancy.”

On Wednesday night Weave did what he normally does: ate some dinner, checked his fantasy teams, called friends and family to tell them about a hilarious column he read called The Life Of Dad and, of course, watched the White Sox. The starting pitcher that night was Mark Buehrle, a southpaw who’s so ineffective he’s often confused for a batting tee. Weave decided to channel surf, assuming that the Sox would get thumped. Around the 5th inning he noticed something interesting—Buehrle hadn’t given up a hit.

He stopped surfing.

“I knew right then, I swear,” Weave said. “I passed up the chance to see a no-hitter.”

Now, for you crazy non-baseball types, no-hitters are about as rare a phenomenon as Brittany passing up candy—sure, it happens, but not many have seen it and years can pass before it happens again. In fact, the last time a Red threw a no-hitter Ronald Regan was president, interest rates were 10% and I was in love with Winnie Cooper. I’d have given up anything—including Winnie—to be at that game.

Weave stared at the TV. The sixth, seventh and eighth innings passed and still no hits. He paced all over the living room. Julie, who had been online looking up baby strollers, joined him. She watched with half excitement, pretending to care.

He kept muttering to himself, “I could have been at this game!” But he wasn’t; he was home with his wife. And with that, Buehrle threw his final pitch, inducing a grounder to the third baseman and completing his no-hitter. Weave began clapping and a tear rolled down his cheek. Julie, like any loving wife, smiled, mocked his tear and went back to talking about strollers.

Good Grief.

Sacrifices come in all shapes and forms. Whether it’s missing history to care for your pregnant wife or cutting back the number of nights you play softball, good dads will always give up anything for their children (and even children-to-be). Weave’s story helped give me perspective and taught me a lesson that I’ll never forget:

Kids will always be a pain in the butt.

Lying is Fun ...

Once the doctor confirmed our pregnancy, we decided that it would be best to wait until Christmas to spring the news on family and friends. After all, Christmas is a time of love, sharing and excitement. It also signifies the birth of God’s greatest creation—the Christmas carol, which must be sung out of tune and at excessive volumes. Luckily, my family has mastered this art.

But that meant three more weeks of keeping it secret. THREE FULL WEEKS! The only thing I can keep for three weeks is a sink full of dirty dishes. Brittany pointed out that we kept it quiet the four weeks leading up to the doctor visit, but that was different. We weren’t sure. There was no real proof. For all we knew she just had gas. Now we had a picture—undeniable evidence.

If it were up to me, I would have started making phone calls immediately, but Brittany swore me to secrecy. She even made me pinky swear on it. Pinky Swear! For those unfamiliar with the ritual, all that’s important to remember is that if you break the Pinky Swear you’re out of the secret loop forever. (This rule holds true everywhere, except in Texas where they substitute “out of the secret loop” with “cutting off your giblets.”)

For the next few weeks I kept my mouth shut, which was harder than pronouncing “indubitably.” Some people made jokes about us getting pregnant, but that’s pretty standard when they’ve known you as a couple for nearly a decade. Other people (my dad) offered us a bribe of collectable Matchbox cars for a grandchild. And a few others (Brittany’s sister Mel) threatened to remove Brittany from her wedding party if she didn’t have a baby-belly come September.

Not that we were feeling any pressure.

Quickly, it dawned on me that in order to keep folks from finding out we were going to have to lie. I mean, people would start to wonder why Brittany couldn’t play soccer anymore. They’d definitely question why her boobs were getting bigger. And, of course, she’d show the telltale sign that’s unavoidable to every pregnant woman on the planet—no alcohol. Now I’m sure several of you will say, “A glass of wine is good for the baby,” but that kind of irresponsible attitude is what leads so many good kids to ABA—Alcoholic Babies Anonymous.

We spent a full night coming up with lies, excuses and trickery. Soccer was erased by a “stomach bug” caused by “bad Chinese food.” The boobs were hidden by thick sweaters. We couldn’t go out because we had to save money for a “dining room set.” These were all reasonable, acceptable excuses that people bought hook, line and sinker.

Alcohol, on the other hand, required a more delicate and complex approach.

My wife is no lush, but she does enjoy the occasional beer when we’re out at the bar or with dinner or for breakfast, and it’d be extremely unusual of her not to order at least one. With that in mind, we developed two plans to get around key situations.

Scenario #1: Our weekly post-volleyball BW3 meal with her family. I would leave the gym early, beat everyone to the bar and order three nonalcoholic beers, which I would sneakily pour into two tall glasses. It was genius and worked like a charm. It was also the nastiest thing I’ve ever tasted.

Scenario #2: Out with friends at Mulligan’s Pub. It’s impossible to pour fakes beers into glasses in a crowd, so I’d order two regular beers and give one to Brittany. While she sat in the corner pretending to casually “sip,” I chugged mine. “Can you hold my drink while I hit the restroom,” I’d say. When I returned, we pulled the old switcharoo and no one was the wiser. The problem with this plan, though, is that I have very generous friends who often buy rounds. Four hours and 14 beers later (seven by their count), I was falling down, slurring my speech and earning the nickname “lightweight,” not to mention the hangover that awaited me.

Ah, the tough sacrifices parents make for their children.

By the time Christmas rolled around, the gland in my body that produced lying-enzymes had grown to an impressive 14 pounds. I had mastered a skill that, once the holidays were over, was going to be rendered useless. After all, I hate lying to people and refuse to ever do it again.

“What’s that, dear? Oh no, you’re TOTALLY looking skinny.”

(Well, never do it again starting tomorrow.)