the most wonderful time of the year

Recently a friend said she is becoming aware of the futility of trying to schedule holiday celebrations with her children. Not because of anything she’s done, but because the kids are grown now and significant others have begun to take center stage in their lives.

I was reminded that when I married it was made known to me, in no uncertain terms, that we were expected to be at the in-law’s house, not just for Thanksgiving but for Christmas, too.

It wasn’t such a big deal at Thanksgiving, although I missed the favorite foods I knew growing up, and soon learned that venison was an acceptable alternative to turkey. At least we had sweet potatoes, but forget cranberry sauce, and anything pumpkin was not to be seen, mainly because anything you couldn’t raise on the farm wasn’t worth having.

Christmas was a real trial. Forget the fact that my family might like to see us, fil’s forcefulness combined with hubby’s irritation at being asked to set up a tree in our own home made it next to impossible for personal decorations.

My children have very few memories of celebrating a holiday in their own home. We always had to pack up and go at least two days in advance, so there went Christmas Eve, too. And how to keep presents secret from inquisitive five-and six-year-olds during a ten-plus-hour car trip was more than I could manage, there simply weren’t enough blankets in the world, so whatever we took had to be small in size and number. Even though the station wagon was large, there wasn’t a lot of room left over after you packed enough clothes to last a week for four people and added a dog in the back. But there was always a light in my kids eyes, from what was under the tree at the other house, and they certainly enjoyed spending time with a granny who doted on them.

Which was way better than the second marriage. Good thing my kids were older by then. After a couple of years of being all but forgotten they became less expectant of receiving anything from hubby’s family, and learned to sit quietly with their two presents while they watched the only four people who mattered tear through the wrappings of numberless boxes of joy. (I hope there’s a special place in hell for adults who take out their frustrations and unhappiness on little children.)

But the upside is that all those years were good training for me. These days I snail mail what I must to people I care about but who don't care about me. Thank you God for a daughter who, even with her Herculean schedule, makes sure there is time for me to spend with her and her family in the week before the actual day. Otherwise, I spend the holidays at home alone, while hubby works. Food? He does not eat pumpkin, sneers at cranberry sauce, and don’t even think about putting sweet potatoes where they can be even sniffed, much less seen. He favors beef tenderloin over turkey, quail instead of ham. It just doesn’t seem worth the expense to buy something that only I enjoy, and so I don’t. There are very few Christmas decorations in our home, because, frankly, after twenty years of trying I am just too tired to set up a tree and decorate and then take it all down and put it away on Christmas morning. I’m the only one who knows it’s there, so have pared down to whatever can fit on the dining room table. And it’s not like there would be anything under the tree, anyway. Oh, well. At least cleanup is fast.

And, yes, please, I'll have some cheese with my whine.