My husband’s mother Marie was a remarkable woman. Although we never met, I know she was tall and exuded class. Even as a young mother in the 50’s she had impeccable expensive taste. The phrase, “You get what you pay for” worked in the 50’s. A gift from Marie was a gift of a lifetime, something to pass down to your children and grandchildren.

Unfortunately, Marie died when my husband was very young. He doesn’t remember a lot about her and has only a few cherished possessions to remember her by. And cherished is an understatement.

When he moved in with me years ago, he arrived with an old shoe box in hand. In that shoe box were ceramic figurines wrapped in old tissue paper, each piece carefully wrapped. He quietly showed me the contents: An angel, a donkey, three wise men. Mary and Joseph, and of course the Sweet Baby Jesus in the manger. The angel still held an old birthday candle his mother had placed there in the early 60’s.

This was some reverent shit, man. The nativity scene was one of only a few memories he had of his mother. This was something. I was in awe.

Every year, I would decorate the house for Christmas, red and green gaiety in every corner and on every surface. And always always always I left a special place for his nativity scene, just in case. Every year he would leave it in the box, unwilling to take it out. Being rabidly insecure, of course that meant he didn’t feel we were a bonafide couple, or established, love-everlasting, til-death-do-us-part soul mates. We were just a temporary thing and there was no reason to plant roots.

I’m emotional that way. It was an invisible test he never knew and he failed every year.

Finally one year he did. I was breathlessly delighted. He carefully set the manger on top of the cabinet that was bare every year, a lady in waiting. He gently spread out the angel hair (original of course) and gingerly placed each piece exactly as he remembered. A lovely sight to behold! He even cut holly from Mr. Murphy’s tree to decorate the wall behind the blessed scene.

I have no words to describe my glee. YES! He loves me! Yes, we will be together forever and YES he knows we are a twosome, united forever, dammit. This is PROOF! WE ARE ONE!

On cloud nine, I was happily dusting the living room, listening to Christmas carols, no doubt silently planning my wedding vows. As I merrily whisked through the living room, I happened upon the nativity scene. Why, it hadn’t been dusted in what…40 something years? With joy, I waved my feather duster at the delicate figures. I was all puffy with ego, knowing how my long deceased mother-in-law would admire and approve of me and my impeccable housecleaning skills.

I heard a small thunk.

Oops.

Whoa! There was the Baby Jesus, lying headless and helpless in his manger. WTF? With mounting despair, I realized I had exuberantly caught the Babe’s head with the duster, cruelly severing it from its precious Blessed Baby Jesus’s Neck.

Panic arose. What the hell was I going to do now? Goddamit, I beheaded the Baby Jesus! Fuck! The one precious thing he finally shared with me and I BEHEADED THE FUCKING BABY JESUS!

You don’t get forgiven for beheading.

With guilty fingers I nervously slapped on some super glue. It holds everything, right? It held the quarter on the sidewalk years ago that my little brother put there, so it can hold anything. With a prayer and solemn vow never to swear again, I lay the Baby Jesus down in his sweet bed. Shhh! Everything’s going to be alright and no one is the wiser.

But fuck no, his stupid Blessed Ass Baby Head rolled off, lying in a surprised heap next to his stupid severed Baby Neck. The Babe looked at me accusingly. “He hates you and I do too,” I swear it said.

What to do? The humor route? A bandaid holding the head on? A teensy scarf, after all it was December! Pretend I didn’t know? Or what about those damned crazy dogs? (That one would have worked.)

I had no choice but to come clean. That was a long wait, eons later he came home from his long day of work.

With a trembling voice, I confessed. So very very sorry was I. I recklessly destroyed a precious irreplaceable memory. Selfish stupid me!

“Don’t worry,” he said calmly. “It was already broken. That’s why I haven’t been putting it out.”

Shit.