John asked to talk about Christmas presents. I was willing, even though I have pretty much finished buying and wrapping everything our kids are getting. We use cloth bags, which makes it fast. And free. My mind wandered as he cleared his throat.

He leaped into what was evidently a practiced speech about how his reluctance to actually put gifts under the tree is not from a lack of love for his family. He does care, he is just hindered by the worry that he will pick the wrong things.

I get it. I remembered the nifty items from the dollar store that looked like real electronic gizmos my son likes. I got several. When we facetimed on Christmas he had to cloak his disappointment over plugs that were the wrong size or model. Why did I think they were at the dollar store anyway?

Or the year I bought a lens on our child's Wish list online, only to find out he didn't want it anymore. He returned it and, uh, bought something for me. Which I am still typing on. Now. 

John was still talking about how much he appreciates the thought I put into gifts, and I smiled to remember how easy it had been this year. My daughter in law actually sent me the link for the jeans her husband wants, which were on sale. I bought two without leaving my chair.  Another son told me the precise hiking socks he would wear, just in case I was curious. No way I messed that one up. 

John was still speaking. This was not easy for him. I wondered why. 

Oh yeah. There was that year I fumed for a full week over what he had failed to give the twins. Our precious twins. The ones who ask for so little. 

"It's fine." I said bluntly. "The kids are getting what they want. I wrote your name on all the cards."

While I understood why I had dismissed any expectations for him to go prowling through department stores, or Amazon, apparently I had forgotten to tell him he was off the hook. I guess I had speared him pretty deeply with the very same hook a few years back. 

It is hard to say if it is progress that I no longer expect John to be Santa Claus. Or just acceptance of who he is. He is the one who built me two new coops this summer, and rigged lights for them from a blown socket outside. That was no picnic. He is the one who picks up kids late at night when I am fast asleep in my warm water bed, whose sheets he changes. Because when I do they come untucked the second night. He is the one who plotted with our son to put a holiday slide show on our large screen for me to enjoy every day in December. Longer, if I choose.

I suppose after thirty some years it is less that I have what I want than that I want what I have.