Labor cost management

 The hollowed-out pumpkins on our side porch turned from plump grinning orbs to melted, mold speckled blobs that even the squirrels stopped gnawing.

For a month we passed them, my husband and I, each of us considering who would finally put their squashed carcasses to rest on the compost pile and when.

I, of course, was holding out hope for him.

Rationalizing that since I'd already put away all the other decorations, the least he could do was shovel the last of the Halloween gore off the steps.

He has all the shovels ... somewhere. 

This isn't the first year the great pumpkin stand-off has happened. The neighbors make a joke of it when I finally break down and use my triple bag dog-poo collection technique on the pumpkin matter one evening just before dark.

I laugh, despite myself. 

My angst has nothing to do with keeping up with the Joneses. 

Their porch has long ago been swept of frightful things. It's just the solitary work of such disappearances that makes me dig into The Contract.

Where is it written that his once-in-a-while tasks earn more credit?

The special things ... the snaking of a drain, the patching of walls, the caretaking of a pool counts more than the endless piles of laundry, and dishes, and dust bunnies.

Of course, his artfully made fence and his painstaking patio will earn him praise and adulation. It puffs him up.

While I deflate a little more each time someone registers a complaint with the missing sweatshirts department: "Did you check the laundry? Pretty sure it's in the dryer as we speak."

Not a lot of glory in folding socks, but here we are. Calculating value based on the complexities of unpaid labor. Accepting only gen-u-ine gratitude as currency. 

The cycle continues through winter and the holidays pile on.

The tree will be here soon. 

We will take a night to bedazzle it with selections from the glitter-encrusted collection of the family history museum, which lives mostly uncategorized in a series of boxes stashed in an attic over the garage. 

In the course of an hour, the thing will seem like an old family member come to visit. Even its shape will be familiar: compact and trim, but not too tall. 

For that golden hour, the family will be together without much distraction. We won't bicker about which movie will play on in the background (tradition calls for Elf).

Our own workshop will be abuzz with light strand lassoing, ornament installation, and model train engineering. The only snipping we experience will produce paper snowflakes. 

We won't even argue our petty grievances until it's time to place the star at the top of the tree.

Three rounds of Rock, Paper, Scissors, and it's decided. 

By the time the children dare nestled all snug in their beds, the room will be festooned.

And if there is any question of who will put away all this holiday joy ... I'm seriously thinking of just leaving it up until next year.