I Wish Us A Stress Free Christmas

“Deck the Halls and act so oddly; blah blah blah; blah blah blah blah. Tis the season for gifts unGodly, yada yada ya… yada ya ya ya.”

Why do my stepfather’s unpleasantly peculiar parents insist on spending any money at all on the absolute worst Christmas gifts every damn year? Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not ungrateful, but truth be told, I’d rather they simply wish me a Merry Christmas and leave the child sized mittens at the store; I’m seventeen, not three. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, my three brothers have it so much worse. Michael, who’s fifteen, got a foam football last year with a chunk taken out of it, like someone bit into it. Chuck, who’s sixteen got a pink umbrella, which wouldn’t be that bad except for the fact that he knows as well as we all do, his grandparents are mocking the fact that he’s gay. Then there’s John, the youngest, the only grandchild who shares both sets of grandparents; you’d think he would reap some sort of benefit. Last year, when he was six, the grandparents gave him a regifted ceramic statue of a camel; I shit you not! Every year, I wonder why they’re invited and actually show up. The grandmother makes like a dozen cookies for thirty people and the grandfather spends all evening being rude, judgmental and inappropriate. I wish they’d just stay the hell home! I recall the old adage, “Be careful what you wish for.” But honestly, how could it be a bad thing? 

My own grandparents are quite the opposite; not without their traditional issues which happen to arise every damn Christmas Eve, but they’re kind and generous and treat us all equally whether we’re blood, like me or bonus like Chuck and Michael. Gram runs interference between my Pop and the grandfather with the mouth. She starts yelling his first name in her signature “I’m warning you, shut the hell up” tone around the time he finishes his second beer, knowing it will become increasingly more difficult for my Pop to keep his comments to himself. I can hear her from upstairs; we can all hear her; “Steve!” I say, let him speak! I mean, really, he’s only defending us, all of us from the ritual ridicule that drives up from South Jersey with the lousy gifts, measly plate of cookies that always have a piece of walnut shell hidden inside that someone inevitably bites down on every year, and the piss poor attitudes toward us kids. He’s our Christmas Champion! 

Secretly, Gram wants to physically toss the in-laws from hell out of her house every year, but for the sake of Peace on Earth and good will toward assholes, she stays in the kitchen pretending to cook the ham and turkey that have both been done since two. She and her mother, my Nanny speak to one another in Polish; I may not completely understand but common sense and years of hearing the same phrases tells me they’re expressing their own annoyances. Once, I even saw Nanny pick up one of her famous “loaf” cakes; always wrapped in foil, and no matter the ingredients, always taste like cinnamon, and threaten to throw it at the grandmother. Ha! That woman is so elf-like, tiny, she’d probably knock her out cold with that “loaf.” I’d totally give up my toddler mittens to see that! 

I sit on the top step looking down into the living room, observing yet another Christmas Eve where my uncle Stephen, who flies in from California sits in the corner with a perpetual beer in his hand until the time when he just gets up and leaves without a word to anyone to meet his old friends at one of their familiar haunts; a divey bar on the edge of town, too seedy for most to stumble into or out of for that matter. Eh, he’s harmless for the most part, he doesn’t bring gifts, but he doesn’t bring drama or trouble either, so I’m good with his ignorance. At least when he comes home, he makes my Gram and Pop happy. Of course, the highlight of every Christmas Eve is if and when my Aunt Dale shows up. She gives great gifts, well, they’re most likely stolen, but they’re always amazing. Last year she gave me the most beautiful sweater I ever owned, with the security sensor still attached. Ok, she managed to get it off after the grandmother made a comment about the miracle it was that she was still walking around free as a bird. Oh, but the joy everyone feels as soon as she shows up is so worth a tiny hole in my favorite sweater. She did “borrow” my stepfather’s car once and now his parents refer to her as the criminal; and I hate that. If I didn’t think I’d be sucking soap, I’d totally tell the grandmother to piss off. Like their family is so perfect? 

The vintage color wheel sits on the floor, humming and clicking loudly as it casts blue, then yellow then red {which looks more like pink if you ask me} on the tree. It looks a lot like a little oscillating fan, but instead of blades, there are these cheap plastic multi-colored panels that pass over a light bulb creating the color effects. Every year, the stupid thing gets louder and louder, but I would miss it if Pop didn’t set it up; not all traditions need to be elegant. That thing has been in my memories since I was probably five. I always loved the reflections in the glass ornaments turning them from silver to blue to pink to gold, even if it did take like twenty minutes for one rotation these days. 

 The grandfather is complaining about the noise and gives the wheel a little kick as he passes by the tree, failing to topple it. Jackass! He climbs the stairs in pursuit of the bathroom and as he tries to step past me, instead of asking me to move, he lobs a snide remark about the size of my rear end right at me; yeah, he just called me fat! He takes the blade of his left foot and pushes it into my hip commenting again how he’d have to be much stronger to be able to move me out of his way. Screw off, you miserable excuse of a human! I look down into the living room to find my brother Michael ready to fly up the stairs and assault his own grandfather. I shake my head; not worth the wrath that would inevitably descend on both of us from his father. Save yourself, Michael, it wouldn’t change the ignoramus anyway. 

Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, all are welcome, always have been and always will be. My mother’s friend Cathy and her three young children stop by. They usually do, ever since there was just one kid. My Gram always has something for them, even if it’s just a coloring book and an eight pack of crayons. Kids don’t care, they just get a thrill from tearing open a gift, whatever it may be. Secretly, I slip my toddler mittens to Cathy for her youngest. Here, take these! The grandfather walks by and criticizes the coloring technique of Cathy’s middle child, and I’m very certain he just called that five-year-old little boy stupid. Oh, I really wish the grandparents would have been invited elsewhere; but then again, who would put themselves through this intentionally? My Gram offers a generous pour of vodka into Cathy’s club soda and reaches for her keys sitting on top of her handbag. She tosses the keys to me, and I simply nod; Cathy deserves a touch of holiday cheer. Besides, it’s only a half mile to her house; Michael will take the drive with me, and he and I can walk back to the house. 

By midnight, the four of us are camped out in the rec room downstairs; a tradition we started the same year our families became blended, even before our little brother John was born. All too soon, we’ll be too old to want to stay up all night pretending to hear Santa on the roof and racing one another up the stairs before the crack of dawn to tear into the plethora of gifts under the tree. I never wished for things to change, or did I?

The following Christmas, I sat at the top of the stairs, quietly surveying the all too familiar scene; lights, sounds, {although this year that damn color wheel decided to add a discernible “clunk” to its repertoire.} There were gifts galore, Nanny’s loaf, our drunk uncle in the corner silently plotting his escape, the perfect aroma of roasted turkey and baked ham wafting in from the kitchen, but something was very different. Gram wasn’t bellowing Pop’s name every five minutes, our crazy aunt sat alongside our mother, just holding her hand, and Cathy stuck to her club soda. My brothers huddled together on the couch, playing some handheld video game with little enthusiasm and I kept to myself at the top of the stairs processing the guilt of my wish come true. 

I only wanted an early blizzard, or possibly a touch of the flu; I did not want this, I did not wish for the sadness, the emptiness, the overall feeling of loss permeating the house and choking out the spirit of Christmas. No, the grandparents didn’t die; that would be a horrible way to end the story, but honestly, it would have been easier than what actually happened. He left her; he left us, back in August, just walked out leaving a cowardly note behind. Our mother tried to bravely face the holiday, but we could all feel her melancholy. However, it was the disappointment my brothers were experiencing which kept our holidays from merry and bright status. He never even asked to see them, asshole. He didn’t send gifts, or even call, just moved on with his life. Apples and trees, I suppose. My family, my entire family, were suffering the consequences of my ongoing Christmas wish, but I wasn’t sorry, not entirely. Next time, I might be a little more careful with my intentions, although Santa does have a knack for delivering exactly what we need, even if it isn’t immediately evident. 

Deck the Halls with relief and folly, blah blah blah, blah, blah blah blah. Tis the season for no more Charlie, yada yada ya, yada ya ya.