Warning: if you’re the type of person who hums along to Christmas carols in your car, or owns one of those holiday sweaters that light up in the shape of a reindeer, this story is not for you.
As the freezing December rain continues to drum down on my newly landscaped lawn, drowning the delicate leaves of my pachysandra into submission, I can’t help but grumble: why does anyone like this time of year?
While some people revel in crushing their way through brightly lit department stores to find that perfect gift that will likely end up on some relative’s shelf in January, my preference is to seek refuge on Amazon.com, where I can peacefully order gifts in the comfort of my computer chair, sparing me the agony of the crowded masses and “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire” playing ad nauseam on multiple stereo systems throughout the mall.
I hate to sound like a wet blanket (no pun intended) but I just don’t think the Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa season is the “most wonderful time of the year.” To me, it’s a time when dark, rainy days outweigh the sun, when that tickle in your nose invariably turns into a miserable cold or flu, and most irritatingly, when recession-weary folks feel this incessant need to buy mountains of “stuff” for the loved ones in their lives.
And in some cases, for people they don’t necessarily like.
Take my family for example. There’s no doubt that I love them. But collect my parents, brothers, and our spouses and children into one hot, crowded room for several hours and then ask me if how I feel about them.
Most likely, I’ll tell you (with some degree of guilt) that they’re not my favorite people on the planet.
If I explain why, the desire for Hollywood to make those annoying Christmas family dramas every year, with cloying names like “Home for the Holidays” becomes abundantly clear.
Every family member has a role to play, a role they were cast in decades ago, most likely by their parents. When families reunite—in my case, at my parent’s house nearly every Thanksgiving and almost always every Christmas Eve—everyone has a tendency to sink back into those roles.
Just like riding a bike, yes?
In my family, I take on the role of the Resentful Oldest Daughter, the one child who broke away from her overbearing mommy and daddy, and moved about 250 miles away. At home with my husband and only son, tucked away in our rustic abode with two kitties, we live a cozy and fulfilling life.
Get me in front of my mother, however, and I become that grudge-holding eighteen-year-old that left New Jersey more than two decades ago. Much of my anger is directed toward my baby brother Jon, my parent’s Favored Son. To this day, my mother still babies him, waits on him hand and foot, and makes excuses for him. An unspoken family rule is if you want to contact Jon, you call him. He’s not expected to call you.
Jon still lives near my parents. Much of my mom’s energy these days is focused on his four children and on his wife, Michelle. She spends a great deal of her waking life trying to appease Michelle, to get her daughter-in-law to like her, oblivious to the fact that the relationship with her own daughter is slipping away.
Watching Jon’s family stomp in my parent’s door is like witnessing a cavalcade of the royal family. I observe how my mother panders to my nephews, the grandchildren she sees every week, wondering why we even bother to travel long-distance to see everyone over the holidays. Does anyone even notice us? Or our son, Alex, the grandchild my parents see only a few times a year?
There’s no doubt that Alex’s grandparents love him. But when his cousins are around, he just can’t compete. Not only is he outnumbered, he suffers the curse of being too low maintenance.
