They say the definition of crazy is repeating the same behavior and expecting a different outcome. If that is in fact true, then the definition of totally, certifiably and institutionally insane is to repeat those behaviors every Christmas with your husband and his maniacal approach to hanging the lights resulting in your house looking like the holiday asylum that it is.

I should have known that this year would be no different than any other when back in July when we got a new roof, instead of commenting on its durability in a Cat 4 hurricane, he remarked, “That will be so sweet for hanging the Christmas lights.”

I should have had some sort of hint when he woke up early on a Sunday morning saying he was going to Home Depot. Never has he gone to the home improvement store. On a weekend. In December. Without medication. As he pulled out of the driveway in his cherry picker, he called, “Were you thinking of going traditional or Amsterdam bordello?”

And truly, what did I expect when after an inordinate amount of time, he finally returned not with some understated evergreen trimmings, but rather 800 feet of electrical cord, a fire extinguisher and a handful of magic beans?

And what does it really matter what the question was that preceded this answer: “Why it’s a 50 gallon drum of roof tar and a gross of bungee cords. Santa and 8 reindeer aren’t going to stick themselves!”

All of these constants in our annual holiday decorating showdown remained unchanged, so why did I think there was any other outcome than Times Square meets Dollywood? During Mardi gras. Sponsored by Ringling Brothers. Starring Charo. And Liberace.

Except…

Except this year there was one variable I hadn’t counted on.

He got recruits.

He drafted our children into his little yuletide militia. I stood no chance of defense when our seven year old fired this at me: “I want to be the Christmas House!” My husband beamed like the North Star. When our oldest son got his first electrical shock from an overloaded extension cord, I swear, his father had tears in his eyes. And when our four year daughter pulled a permit for the additional circuit breakers we needed to install it all, why his heart grew three sizes that day.

They worked together all afternoon transforming a madman’s delusions into a neon-lit Christmas I wonder-what-happened-at-their-house-land. I only had to go out twice; once to save the baby from becoming the live model in the manger on the roof, and the other to apply betadine to the side of my tortured artist’s head when he cut his ear off at the beauty he had created.

Curiously, a crazy thing happened inside the house. While the Macy’s Parade was going down our street as my children held tight to giant inflatables over their wee heads, I was able to decorate the house without my usual “help.” Stockings were hung by the chimney with care instead of in the fireplace when Amy couldn’t reach the mantle. Popcorn garland was strung without teeth marks. One bough on the Christmas tree wasn’t weighed down by 37 ornaments while the rest of the tree lay bare.

The halls got decked instead of wrecked.

And while I certainly know this will not last long, at least briefly during this crazy holiday season, we enjoyed a moment of temporary sanity. Which along with a green and red strait jacket and a giftcard to the electric company, was the perfect gift.

©2007 Tracey Henry

Divamail me some holiday cheer! Divamail@SuburbanDiva.com.