The Plan

This year, I have a plan. I’m prepared. I’ve practiced mantras. I meditate and have a gratitude journal and this year I am not going to ‘ruin Christmas dinner’ as my youngest son told me I did last year when he shocked us all with his engagement to Hannah. 

This year is going to be different. I have a plan. 

I will not compare my children. I will not judge them. They are adults and can make their own decisions. I inhale for five and let it out for five seconds. Repeat. I love my family. My family loves me. 

The doorbell rings, but they don’t wait for Bill or me to open it - they just walk right in. A bit rude, but I don’t say anything. Instead, the smile on my face is buoyant and waterproof. 

It’s Mark and he’s brought along Hannah. “Merry Christmas,” I cheer and hold my arms open for them both.

“Thanks! And Happy Hanukkah,” she says and hugs me back. We’re literally sitting down to have a Christmas dinner, but it's fine. Differences like religion don’t bother me at all. 

Mark laughs and sweeps me into a hug, “Merry Christmakkuh, Ma.” 

He’s so big, my baby, I hope he’s watching what he eats. I do not say that, though, of course. “How was the trip?” I ask instead. 

He rolls his eyes, “You don’t want to know.”

“No, tell me!” 

“Well, Hannah here must have had a bit too much eggnog at breakfast, because…whew!” he waves his hand in front of his face. I barely make a face at his disgusting attempt at humor. 

“Oh Markey,” I chuckle and use my Santa Claus oven mitt to smack the back of his arm. 

He rubs his arm. “Watch it, Ma, I’m getting fragile in my old age.” 

I snort. Bill comes out from wherever he’s been hiding since I began cooking this morning. 

“Hey, Dad!” He laughs, like seeing his father here, in his own home, where we raised him, is some kind of surprise. 

“Mark?" Bill growls, as if to say, you rapscallion, where have you been?

Bill’s hug is encompassing and he pulls Hannah into it too. She beams at him. What a - I breathe - wonderful addition to our family.

“Hannah,” I say, “If you’re not too busy, maybe you’d like to help me in the kitchen?”

“Oh, sure,” she says, but her tone doesn't sound convincing.

“Jesus, Ma, ‘if she’s not too busy’? What are you implying?”

I purse my lips to keep from explaining exactly what I was implying - that Hannah is clearly with him because of his success, while her part-time job clearly doesn't pay her bills. 

Breathe in five. Beathe out five. I have a plan. I am not going to ruin Christmas dinner. I swallow the words I’m so tempted to say.

“I’m not implying anything, Mark. I simply wanted to have some time together - we’ll be family in May, after all. I thought I might ask her about the colors you’ve picked for the wedding.”

“No, it’s fine,” Hannah says and then laughs before saying, “I’m terrible in the kitchen. Maybe I’ll pick something up from you, Mrs. Walsh.” 

I loathe self-deprecating humor, but I bend my head and force myself to say a lie to keep up the conversation, “Oh, just ask Bill, I wasn’t great in the kitchen when we first got married either.”

He laughs and says, “My motto is: if you haven't lit your kitchen on fire at least twice, you can’t say you’ve learned to cook."

Breathe in five. Breathe out five.

“Right," and I lead her into the kitchen. 

I don’t criticize her inability to cut safely, but I do teach her how to do it properly. I don’t even ask her if her mother ever cooked at home, because I just know how she’d take it.I’m being good. So, so good. 

Bill and Mark set the table for six and Hannah and I bring the food out, but our company isn’t complete. 

“Should we wait for Ollie?” Mark asks.

“Of course, we should wait,” I say before I can temper my tone.

“I’m hungry, Ma. I’ve been waiting for sweet potatoes all year.”

“Well you didn’t have to wait all year, dear,” but I stop abruptly. I was going to say, ‘If you’d been home for Thanksgiving, instead of going to Hannah’s family in Chicago,’ but, of course, that is not part of the plan. Instead, I save the moment by saying, “I could have sent you the recipe. Maybe you two could learn how to make it together. It’ll be a bonding experience.”

The table goes silent. Bill looks suspicious. Mark is speechless. 

“That’s a great idea, Mrs. Walsh,” Hannah says. I smile at her and I barely have to try to be genuine. 

Mark’s phone chimes. He slides the screen on and reads for a second before wiggling the device in the air, “That was Oliver. They should be here in twenty minutes.” 

Twenty minutes is too round a number. Knowing Oliver, that’s probably code for somewhere around thirty-five minutes. I sigh.

“Oh, alright,” I say. “I suppose we could start with crudites and salad while we wait, as Oliver and his guest are running behind.”

Bill says grace and I make sure follow the 'amen' with a solid ‘in Jesus’s name we pray.' This is a Christian home, after all, and this is Christmas dinner.

Mark and Hannah look at each other the way couples do when they want the other person to do or say something. 

Oh God, I think, please don’t let them be pregnant yet. 

“Dig in,” Bill says cheerily.

Plates are filled, but the air is clogged with the unsaid. I am about to politely ask about Hannah’s part-time job when Mark clears his throat.

“I have something to say,” he begins. 

“Well it can’t be that you two are engaged - that was last year,” Bills says. “Are we going to be grandparents?” There is way too much hope on that man’s face. What the hell is wrong with him. I would have commended myself for how little I scowled in that moment, but it was blasted away a moment later when Mark drops a bombshell. 

“No, not that, though I’d definitely ask Hannah to marry me again just because I liked hearing her say yes; and no grandkids yet, but maybe next Christmas,” he winks at Hannah and she blushes. It's amazing how some people can blush on command like that. Maybe in her extra time, since she only works part-time, she could be an actress. 

“No, I was going to say,” he does a quiet drumroll on the table and announces, “I’m converting to Judaism.” 

I am uncertain if I am relieved or annoyed that I had taken that moment to stick a piece of broccoli in my mouth. I can't breathe in now, or I'll choke, but I do chew for ten seconds instead.

“Ah,” Bill says and looks at me questioningly. 

“Well,” I say, stalling for time. 

Jesus must be watching, because suddenly there is an obnoxious banging at the door and then Oliver is walking in through the front door. 

“Merry Christmas!” He booms. He’s in a full Santa suit, except that instead of pants, he’s wearing red short-shorts. 

“Oliver!” I laugh. Nobody else could pull this off, but Oliver has a way of lighting up any room. I’m certain it’s what makes him so successful at his firm. He has a ton of friends - always has. The only thing he’s been missing is a romantic partner… until Jennifer. We haven’t met her yet, but he’s been talking about her for months. He's told us that they’re serious; that she’s going to move in with him; that he’s never felt so connected to anyone before.

Based on the previous girls he's dated, I imagine she's a tall woman who shops Neiman Marcus. She’ll probably be the kind of woman who has been so focused on her career up until now, but is finally ready to settle down and have a family. Maybe she's 35 or so? She’ll probably have dark curls like me, or maybe red hair like the sweet girl he dated in college - I’d really liked her.

But then Oliver moves out of the way and reveals not the woman I'd imagined, but a little girl. She has giant blue eyes and her blonde hair looks natural. She can’t be more than five feet tall. “Hello, dear,” I say. There is a question in my voice - but who could fault me?

Oliver laughs as he turns back to look at the girl behind him, “Family, I’d like you all to meet Jennifer.” His smile is huge, but all I can see is the salt and pepper in his trim beard and the line in the middle of his forehead. He’s turning 45 this year. And she- she’s- how young is she?

“It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Walsh,” the girl says and steps in for a hug.

“You too, dear,” I say. What else can I say without going off plan?

I try to read Bill’s face as he greets them after me, but that man is too friendly for his own good. Can’t he see how young she is? What the hell is Oliver thinking?

Then Mark and Hannah appear beside us and there’s hugging and introductions all over again. Mark, at least, is an open book to me. I can see the confusion on his face. He’s looking at Oliver like he’s not sure if this is a prank. Like when Oliver insisted Mark was adopted and even created fake government documents to ‘prove’ it. Oliver was always so determined like that. And poor Mark, always wanting to see the best in people, I’m sure that’s how Hannah managed to dig her nails into him so easily. 

Hannah, per usual, is too good of an actress, but she probably recognizes a gold-digger when she sees one. Takes one to know one, after all. 

And yet, this is not just run-of-the-mill gold-digging. This is simply cradle-robbing! I always thought Oliver would have more sense than this. She’s not the woman I imagined at all. She’s barely even a woman! 

We sit down to dinner and the usual questions come up, especially for the girl - since she’s new and the rest of us know each other already. 

“What do you do?”

“Oh, I’m still a student,” 

“How did you meet Oliver?”

“I interned at his company last semester. Oliver was my mentor. He taught me so much.” 

Mark covers his laugh with a cough. Hannah shoots him a glare. At least she has some decorum. 

“What about your family?”

“Oh, they live in LA. I’ll be flying out tomorrow to see them.”

“Just you? Don’t you want to bring Oliver with you to meet your folks?” this from Mark, which surprises me. He’s always worshipped his big brother. Will barely say a word against him, even when they were kids. 

“Oh, no,” she giggles. “They’re really closed-minded, I don’t think they’d be ready to meet him yet.”

“Why not?” From Bill. My Bill. My always friendly and sweet Bill. His voice is serious.

She goes red and Oliver, mouths Dad as he leans back in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with this line of questioning. 

“Well, I don’t think they’re ready for me to settle down yet. I’m so young, you know?” her blush is not receding. 

“And how old are you?” Hannah asks. Why don’t I like her again?

“I’m-” she sneaks a look at Oliver as if asking his permission to answer the question. Asking his permission! What have I raised?

He shrugs and answers for her, “She’s almost twenty.” 

You might think, at this revelation, all eyes would be on the poor girl, or maybe Oliver. Instead, my family members (and Hannah) look at me. Jennifer, meanwhile, becomes oddly interested in cutting her green beans into half-inch sections. 

I breathe. I have a plan. I am not going to ruin Christmas dinner. 

And yet… Am I the one who disappeared all day while I cleaned and decorated and cooked before our children got here? Am I the one who dropped a bombshell on my family that I was leaving the religion my family raised me in? Am I the one who brought a veritable child to an annual family dinner as my date? No! I am not ruining anything!

“Oliver,” I say and I take my time straightening my fork and knife and flattening out the green cloth napkin over my lap.

“Ma-” he starts and I hold up my hand, but I interrupt him.

“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” I say. My words are even. They’re lasers and land with a sizzle on their target. “You are a grown man and she is barely more than a child.” I pause for effect, but not long enough for him to say anything - this timing it’s my specialty, “You can not possibly have a healthy or balanced relationship with someone who could be your daughter!”

The table is silent and, damn it, the plan! The plan is going to pieces.

But then Mark speaks up, “Glad someone said it.”

“Honesty,” Hannah agrees and gives Oliver a chiding look and a disapproving shake of her head. She just might make a good mother, actually. 

Jennifer bites her lip. She’s clearly a second away from crying.

“Oh for the - Oliver! Look what you’ve done!” I exclaim, my voice finally rising in frustration as I gesture to the poor girl.

“What I’ve done? Ma, I’m not the one-”

“That’s enough, Oliver,” Bill says. Bill! Bill never argues with the boys, but he says, “Your mother is right. You’re better than this.” He lays a heavy hand on Oliver’s shoulder, but he wrenches it away. 

“This is bullshit,” Oliver cries. He stands up so quickly that the chair clatters behind him. “I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.”

“But can she?” I ask and then casually bring my cup to my lips and take a sip of wine.

“She is over eighteen. She is old enough to consent,” Oliver argues.

“Barely,” Hannah scoffs. 

“Barely,” I agree with a nod.

“Unbelievable. You’re all hypocrites. You were all mad at Ma for being angry about Mark and Hannah last year, but not one of you is giving Jennifer a chance.” 

“It’s not Jennifer we’re upset with, dear,” I say.

“Fuck you, Ma. Let’s go, Jennifer,” he grabs for her hand, but she’s quicker and moves it out of his way. 

“No, Ollie, they’re right,” she says and looks up at him, meeting his eyes when she says, “This isn’t healthy.”

“Unbelievable,” he says and the look he gives her proves my point - he’s disappointed in her like a father would be disappointed in a child. “Merry fucking Christmas, you assholes,” and then he leaves as loud as he came. The white pom-pom gets stuck in the door as he makes his exit. 

Jennifer sniffles in the following silence and Hannah moves to sit next to her. 

“You can stay here, tonight, dear, we’ll take you to the airport tomorrow, won’t we, Bill?” I say.

“Course,” he says with a wink, back to his charming self. “Anyway, Mark was just telling us about how he’s converting to Judaism,” he says, gesturing to our youngest child. 

“Oh?” Jennifer said, perking up like a four-year-old whose tantrum has just been cut off with the offer of ice cream. “My dad converted when my mom and he got married.

Mark’s face lit up, “See? It can be done!”

“Are they still married?” I ask before I can stop myself, but she doesn’t take offense. 

“Oh yeah,” she says “they’re, like, totally in love. It's disgusting, but cute, you know?”

Mark pulls Hannah in for a sloppy kiss on her cheek. She laughs and wipes her face, but beams back at him. Maybe Hannah isn’t so bad after all. 

After dinner, Hannah and Mark clear the table and then heads back to their hotel room. I’m oddly not unhappy that they’re not spending the night at our home. Maybe because that means I can put Jennifer in Mark’s old room (it seems inappropriate to put her in Oliver’s). 

After the girl seems settled with new sheets and extra toiletries, I return to the kitchen and I’m surprised to find that Bill has already filled the dishwasher. He’s done it all wrong, of course, but that’s not the point is it?

I start to put away the leftovers, but Bill tugs me from behind and turns me in his arms. 

“Do you know how much I appreciate you?” he says. 

“What do you mean?” I ask. His tone is weird. I hope he’s not dying. He’s a pain in my ass sometimes, but I do love this man. I won’t imagine my life without him.

“I mean, I love that you say what’s on your mind. That you’re not afraid to tell people what you think.” 

“Don’t you think I’m a little judgemental?” I ask I really, really hope he’d going to placate me with No, of course not, Honey, but that’s not ever been his style. 

“Maybe,” he shrugs, “but aren’t we all? You just have the courage to say it out loud.”

I’m speechless. He chuckles and presses a kiss to my forehead. “You’ve worked today. I’ll put the food away. Just sit at the breakfast table and keep me company, will ya?”

“I could do that,” I say, but then I turn and wince. I can’t help myself. “You know you have to run the garbage disposal before you start the dishwasher, right? And bowls need more space to clean properly.”

He chuckles and says, ‘On it, Mrs. Walsh.” 

Christmas dinner had not gone quite to plan, but it still feels like a success.