Twas the Nightmare Before Christmas
It’s Christmas Eve 2018, and I’m in agony.
The light from the dining room spills onto the bed in my husband’s childhood room where I’m curled in a ball, writhing in pain, while my in-laws watch Chevy Chase disintegrate on Christmas Vacation, and sip the coveted annual shot of Sam Adams Utopias that I can’t believe I’m missing.
I just want this feeling to go away…
If the Christmas of 2018 taught me anything, it’s that I have an expiration at family gatherings. Like a carton of eggs too-long-since-hatched, I turn green, foul, and damn near crack under the weight of so much togetherness.
And, last year, it literally made me sick.
Is it any wonder I capped off last holiday season in the hospital having a scope for stress-induced stomach pain when my 12 Days of Christmas variation includes the familiar trappings of too many houses with too many people, trying to satisfy the traditions of multiple families, and the inevitable resentment for the ones that won’t budge? Over the years, Christmas has become a war for time. It’s been hastily opening gifts and eating an enormous meal at one house, then plowing through the snow to the next to hastily open gifts and eat an enormous meal at another house, before falling into a bloated coma and repeating the insane ritual the next day. It’s meant taking out loans and shopping as early as September so everyone had “a little something,” and a week’s worth of unwanted leftovers (a food addict’s wet-dream...and a recovering addict’s worst nightmare) because the cooks in the kitchen forgot they weren’t feeding an army, just a dozen, or so, immediate family members. It was and is days on end living in someone else’s house two hours from home, where after a day and a half I begin the slow descent into hell, with the glow of mother’s guilt like Rudolph’s red nose leading the sleigh.
It’s not that I don’t love our families. On the contrary—they are wonderful. That’s why my hubs and I try so hard to please everyone. I understand the chaos ensues only because our family cups run-eth over. But I’m a “small doses” kind of gal. It keeps things sweeter and allows less time for the underlying family dynamics (ahem, dysfunctions) that we avoid 51 weeks of the year to start burrowing under my skin.
You know the story…
The kids won’t eat, brother’s MIA and didn’t even bother to call, Aunt Betty didn’t bring enough dessert (doesn’t she know we have 20 mouths to feed?), Uncle Ted’s spewing politics on his fourth cup of eggnog, and your brother-in-law reminds you that he’s an expert on everything after enough beer. Grandpa can’t be bothered to leave his easy chair though Grandma’s nearly killing herself in front of the stove cooking the meal you’ll eat for the next two weeks because she still thinks it’s the Great Depression, the dog will shit in a quiet spot because they’ve been fed too many table scraps, and the sisters will fight over whose kid is more well-behaved (spoiler alert, they’re both bastards) because they don’t know any other way to relate. When Auntie Flo leaves the room, the women will bitch that she brought prime rib instead of ham—and it’s too rare for anyone in this family to eat—and when Cousin Bill gets belligerent his new girlfriend will crack him across the jaw in a move you've never seen at a holiday gathering but suddenly realize was missing all along.
Then you ask, Why aren’t we all just punching each other in the face? Maybe a good whack will smack the stupid out of everyone.
If you’re like me, you start the holidays with the naive optimism of Clark Griswold hoping for love and togetherness in the name of baby Jesus, but by the end we’re slowly trolling for all the things our brood does wrong—our faults and shortcomings following us to the table with the giant turducken, two pans of dinner rolls, and a side of diabetes for the new year. Hell, we need the renewal of New Year’s Day just to figuratively cleanse our souls of the trauma a week of holiday festivities brings. Around the time Mom’s face turns red when no one left room for pie, the kids are quarantined to the basement until it’s time to open gifts, and the dog chokes on a ham bone. Then Grandpa puts his feet up for another nap--which is really just an excuse to tune out the world and avoid doing dishes--and I find myself wanting to dissolve into the upholstery beside him because he’s the only one who seems to escape unscathed. Maybe if I watch Scrooged for the tenth year in a row, I’ll finally remember that all I need is a little love in my heart to look past the squabbling and exaggerated faults of everyone—myself included—magnified by holiday cheer and too much liquor.
Like the classic Christmas films that flood the airwaves every December, my holiday tale will probably be no different this year than any Christmas past. And that’s what scares me. While we may have (finally, mercifully) evolved beyond bestowing gifts to every family member, the travel, the food, the fights, and the many long days and nights are still alive in all their festive glory. It can’t be stopped. And if it can, I haven’t figured out how. It’s the one week of the year when, like it or not, I have to stuff my feelings into the pit of my stomach (which, I suspect, is how I ended up in the hospital last year) and pray for December 26th to arrive so I can get my life back again.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this year will be different. Maybe this year we’re gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye because we’re the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.
Or…maybe not.