Father’s Day, Christmas, and Every Other Holiday in Between

Today is Father’s Day and my phone is as silent as the grave.

One person contacted me this morning to wish me a Happy Father’s Day, and since then, the phone has not rang, vibrated, or illuminated with another congratulatory message.

And that’s fine with me.

Honestly, I think that most holidays are overrated and over-celebrated, and if it weren’t for my wife…

I wouldn’t celebrate them at all.

I grew up in household where holiday celebrations consisted of eating a normal dinner together and then doing chores around the house.

For my tenth birthday, I got cake and blisters. My “gift” was digging trenches in our backyard to install sprinklers.

Hoo-ray.

And I’m not saying that to bash my parents or ignore the importance of hard work. Nor am I complaining about missing noteworthy events to look back on as a child.

I only say that to create a picture in your mind, friend.

And oh yeah, one Christmas we got our gifts the day after Black Friday.

As a kid, you think getting your gifts early is pretty cool. You’re excited to have them NOW.

But, as time goes on, you realize that part of Christmas is WAITING FOR the gifts. Knowing there was stuff under the tree wrapped up but not knowing (although kind of knowing) what it was, was part of the experience.

The mystery of it all was part of the allure.

(My proof is that once everything was opened, and the paper was tossed aside and the gifts were stacked and there was nothing left to reveal, it all felt so… hollow)

Coming back.

Since holidays weren’t really celebrated, I continued to not celebrate them when I met my wife, Amanda.

This turned out to be a point of contention, as she celebrated EVERY holiday:

Cooking. Decorations. People.

All the stuff I liked to avoid.

For the first few years of our relationship, we argued over how we’d spend our holidays.

My answer was always: Why even bother? They’re commercialistic and there’s too many of them.

And my wife would reply: Because the kids and I like them. And it means a lot to me.

Her background of growing up in a household where holidays were actually a BIG DEAL had ruined her. Had tarnished her.

In other words: she’d been tainted with celebratory poison.

I attempted to cure her over the years. To appeal to her sense of reason about why we were wasting so much time and effort on meaningless festivities.

But it was all to no avail. My efforts were vain and futile.

Out of all the holidays, Christmas was the worst.

I couldn’t understand why she WANTED to stress herself out with all the gift wrapping and the shopping and the driving and the family fights…

…just to complain about every other family member…

…and end the day frazzled and fried, nerves on edges…

And want to do it again next year.

I thought it was all kinda dumb.

So every time, I argued my points. And each time I was defeated in our war of words.

I was one against many.

She used words like “Grouch” and “Grinch” and “Scrooge”.

I didn’t think I was, but then again, the antagonist rarely believes they’re the bad guy.

It wasn’t that I HATED holidays, I was moreso apathetic to them.

Whatever.

Then one day, all that changed.

It was early December.

My wife was at work, and I, being a jobless bum who played video games all day, was cleaning up around the house.

I don’t remember if it was Christmas music that came on or an ad or something about Christmas Spirit or some other nonsense but I remember hearing it, and all of a sudden, something inside of me broke.

Like a bursting dam, I actually cried.

It occurred to me that even though I didn’t see the significance of the holidays, the fact that my wife did was what I should have been focusing on.

As a husband, it wasn’t about me. It was about serving and making sacrifices for my spouse.

And as a Christian, it was about putting the needs of others before my own.

Sure, it’s easy to get carried away with holidays…

…but I also couldn’t just expect my wife not to find them important, either.

And it was important to the kids for the memories formed around those special days.

It struck me that the holidays weren’t about money or gifts or excessive food or drinking…

They’re about having days that stick out in our memory like bookmarks in the chapters of our lives to look back on together.

And it’s about forging bonds with people we care about.

In essence: I had my Hallmark Holiday movie moment.

That day, I denounced the apathy that had plagued me, and cast off the shackles of misery that had ensnared me since childhood.

I ran to our storage room, grabbed every Christmas decoration we had and started spreading them out around the house.

We didn’t have many — since I was out of work at the time — but I did the best I could to make the place look “festive.”

Threw some tinsel on the stair railing. Erected a small tree on the coffee table. Tossed a string of lights up in the townhouse window.

It was crappy. And lame. And pathetic.

And it looked like my children had done it.

But I was proud of what I had done.

When my kids came home, I thought they might complain. I fully expected them to.

Quite the opposite happened:

They cheered in excitement.

It made my glacier encased heart thaw a few degrees.

But the real reaction came from my wife’s arrival home from work.

I remember her walking in the door, tired from work, and then stopping, glancing around, confused, and then looking at me with tears in her eyes.

She ran over and hugged me, crying.

“Sorry, it looks bad,” I said.

“I love it,” she replied.

She was probably lying but it made me feel better.

The ice melted a little more.

I can’t say that every holiday since then I have wanted to celebrate. Especially the ones where people come to my home, eat and drink all my food, then hurry up and evacuate before attempting to help clean up.

I suppose that is the price of shallow company.

But it’s better now. I can now enjoy days with names on them.

In fact, I may divulged a little TOO much.

Gone too far to the other extreme.

We had, at one point, 3 1/2 Christmas trees:

Green, black, and white. And that miniature one from before.

(Thank God we’re back down to one)

Circling back to Father’s Day — the story was the same for me as a new father.

Initially it was:

Don’t get me anything. Don’t do anything for me. Don’t bother me.

Just leave me alone and give me some peace.

Now it’s:

Dinner of my choice (today it’s manicotti). Games with the kids. A cheap gift that the kids either made or got from a department store that I’ll never use and will sit on my desk for the next three years until it gets thrown away or put into storage.

And I love it. I can appreciate it now.

It fills me up and I don’t really need anyone else’s wishes to validate my role as a dad.

The direction this post took, was unintentional.

I had intended this post to be about Father’s Day specifically.

I meant to talk mainly about my physically absent bio father, and my emotionally absent stepfather.

I meant to talk about how my dad died years ago and I can’t tell him “Happy Father’s Day” anymore.

I meant to talk about how it wasn’t until I forgave both of my fathers that I could appreciate them enough to say Happy Father’s Day (and actually mean it).

But I guess this elongated story about not celebrating holidays will have to suffice.

Toodles.