Puttin Up Reindeer, Singin' Songs of Joy and Peace

Break out the mood stabilizers. Christmas is coming. Coming like the dawn. No avoiding it.

And on one hand, I am thrilled. I am spending another Christmas standing under the mistletoe with Scott. I will wake up with the kids on Christmas morning and enjoy all of our rituals without pretending it is Christmas one day early. And I have planned and pushed myself to make the biggest impression on my kids. Squeezed the most joy into our time together. Concentrated the festivities. Saturated our on-again-off-again custody schedule with a much fun as the season has to offer.

Decorated the house our first weekend together so that when they returned to me two weeks later, it would me like stepping into Santa's workshop.
Maintained our ritual of picking out the tree and walking it home in our little red wagon.
Decorated the tree as a family and listened to Christmas carols as we strung the lights and draped the ribbons.
Baked cookies, ate cookies and baked some more cookies. More than I will be able to eat and/or give away.
Went to see train displays and doll house exhibits and Christmas crafts.
Lit candles, illuminated outdoor trees, hung wreaths, burned Dad's famous incense.
Slowed down to drink eggnog and watch a few Christmas classics piled on the sofa. Laundry be damned.

But as I wait for Christmas to come upon a midnight clear, it seems that every year panic, and chaos, and havoc and even few real asswipes come a-caroling first.

Let's start with the asswipe with the frequent flier plan - Lars.

You might imagine that someone with the motherload of emotional SNAFUs of epic proportion such as Lars would be the first in line to collect his boarding pass for Dementia Express Flight 302 to The Loony Bin.

You would be correct. At least in assuming that he'd go sailing over the edge.

This year is no different and he has done his darndest to manipulate the whole situation. Tried to jockey for more time with the kids - for his birthday, for a trip at Thanksgiving, for the entire week between Christmas and New Years because he can take the whole week off from work and stay home with them, you know, as a favor to me.

And when I would not agree to any of it, and instead outfoxed the fox, he agreed to an arrangement he does not like. Mostly because the children are in my clutches for far too long a stretch of time and God Only Knows what kind of spell I'll cast.

And while he's held it somewhat together for a while, this weekend he went around the bend over something relatively minor. Kate had a party when her parents came to town. (We'll get to that.) And Scott and the kids and I attended with bells on. Lars had attempted to call the kids but could not reach anyone and was pissed. The party was early (these ARE senior citizens) and we were on the road by 6 pm to get there with a bottle of wine and two hors d'oeuvres and Kate's belated birthday gift and a one-of-a-kind card making a Marie Antoinette joke. Hil and Pat left their phones at home. My phone was in the designated coat room in my purse buried under so many wool coats. Lars evidently dialed his little sausage fingers off with no luck. I'm surprised all the calls didn't start a small smoldering house fire.

And the next day there was hell to pay (as opposed to Hell Toupee, which we'll get to). He rankled the kids and snarked at me and went on and on with no end in sight to the point where I told him the phones were being turned off and the land line unplugged, please go take one of the many varieties of pills for what ails you and if you can't do us the courtesy of dying, please just go away.

And so a few days later, evidently in response, Hil pulls out something for me from her backpack. Something Lars sent home with her to give to me claiming it was mine and he needed to return it to me.

I open the bag and nearly croak.

It is the beautifully crafted, elaborately patterned, lovingly assembled counted cross stitch Christmas stocking I spent the first 18 months of our marriage making for him. Picked out a special lining fabric. Used a Christmassy quilted fabric for the back. Affixed a beautiful gold and red tassel. Not to mention the hundreds of hours of painstaking stitchwork. It hung on the mantle for our second Christmas together and every Christmas of our marriage. He took it with him when he'd left. As it should be.

It isn't like he just realized what it was. He purposely took it. Six years ago. I don't know why it is suddenly something that must be eradicated from the dwelling...

Maybe Liza made him a new one? (She's done lovely embroidery on her hemp garments...)

Or maybe since they are engaged, she can't stand the sight of something from me adorning the fireplace at Christmas? A Ghost of Christmas Past?

No - because if it were any of those things, he'd do what any normal person would do. He'd wrap it up and put it away to give to one of the kids one day saying "Your mother made this for me when we were first married. Maybe you'd like it for your new baby. I'd like you to have it."

So, no. It is none of those things. It is instead intended to say, "I hate you so thoroughly that I will part with this possession because I must scrape off any and all reminders that I ever shared so much as a split second of my life with someone as hateful as you." And the sneak has to stuff it into Hil's backpack and lie to her about it being mine.

Cat's out of the bag. When she saw how stunned I was, she asked why and I answered truthfully.

But now I don't know what to do with the darn thing.

Part of me wants to get rid of it. Like an exorcism. I am tempted to sell it on eBay. I wonder what I could get for it. It is lovely.

I am also half tempted to stitch the cat's name on it and stick it up on the mantel with the others. Thanks, Lars, you saved me the time and aggravation of getting a stocking for the cat myself.

I am not really sure why this bothers me so much, but it does. I guess because whatever the reason for not wanting it on his mantel, there were at least a dozen ways to handle the situation. And eleven of them didn't involve sending a little F*** You Christmasgram.

This was a message. As clear as the dead fish that said that Luca Brazzi rests with the fishes. There will be no boundaries and no limits to the levels of meanness and pettiness to which Lars will subscribe. He will never forgive my leaving him; he will never put it aside. So long as I'm living, he'll have someone to hate.

And with all the twinkling lights, and candles burning bright, and the North Star shining like a beacon in the night, there is a darkness that no one can light, a mile away in Lars' soul.