With the Christmas season fast approaching, that means one thing.

Well, I suppose it means more than one thing, but for the purposes of this post, just roll with me people. Thanks.

With the Christmas season fast approaching, that means one thing.

Decorations. From the day after Thanksgiving (and for us Canucks that means mid-October) the holiday decorations go up in all the stores and malls. Every where you look you see the sparkle and twinkle of this holiday season. Which, for me, means that I am unable to take my children anywhere during this time.

Because what ten and nine year old do you know who needs more encouragement to get excited about the prospect of ripping open parcels on a cold winter’s morning, while gorging themselves on vast amounts of chocolates and other assorted goodies, all in the name of the season?

Certainly, not mine. Which means whenever I need to take them out in public with me, I have to put a paper bag over their heads. Kidding. I only wish I could put the paper bag over their heads. (And duct tape over their mouths sometimes too, but my therapist and the police tell me this is a bad thing…)

I digress.

In our house, the decorations go up on Dec. 1. Regardless of temperature, blizzards, or general apathy, the tinsel is tossed the first day of December. My kids can count on this the same way they can count on the sun rising in the east and their mother looking like a hideous hag with a matching disposition every morning.

Which means digging out the damn decorations. Which, of course, are stored outside in a shed, buried underneath an assortment of crap that my darling husband has managed to toss on top of the boxes during the course of the year.

This is my husband’s favorite job, every year. (Sarcasm, dear internet.) He absolutely loves having to pack in a seemingly endless parade of Rubbermaid containers and cardboard boxes. He manages to make it so fun, what with all his colorful cussing and boundless bitching. Once he dumps all the boxes in our front foyer, he then heads for the hills. Where it is safer for him; for by this time, I have had enough of whining and I’m generally ready to hurt him.

All in the name of the Christmas spirit, of course.

So last night, as I casually mentioned it was once again that time of year as we were cuddling on the couch, I was mentally prepared for the barrage of bad words and negativity I felt sure I was to encounter.

However, my darling Boo decided to shake things up a bit. Put some spice in our marriage. Toss me a curve ball…I could go on, but in the interest of brevity, I think you get my point.

Instead of acting like a whiny two year old coming off a sugar high and in desperate need of a nap, he pleasantly commented that he couldn’t wait for the Christmas decorations to go up.

Startled, (and I admit, a bit pleasantly surprised) I asked him why.

(Cue the dumbass card now, folks.)

His response:

Because every time I put up the decorations, I clean the house afterwards. And it’s getting a bit dusty. If I hadn’t noticed.

Don’t worry, dear internet. I didn’t maim him. Although, no jury would find me guilty after that remark and my years of wiping up his pee splatter and picking up his dirty socks for him.

No, I just did what any good wife would do.

I went to bed and dreamt of Clive Owen. Dusting my house. While wearing a Santa’s cap and sporting strategically placed tinsel…

Thanks Boo. That was just the type of encouragement I needed to get in the festive spirit.